


Weatherglass I and II

by thebasement_archivist



Category: Highlander - All Media Types, The X-Files
Genre: Crossover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-02-15
Updated: 2001-02-15
Packaged: 2018-11-20 18:26:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11340915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: Mulder travels to the west coast to check up on some unsolved murders... and discovers more than he bargained for.





	Weatherglass I and II

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

Corposant by rac

Corposant  
by rac  
email:   
website: http://enook.net/hl/rac/rac.htm  
Rating: NC-17 m/m for serious (and not-so-serious) same-sex sexual situations. If that's not your cup of tea, best leave now. It won't be held against you.  
Spoilers: D.P.O., sorta kinda a wee bit.  
Disclaimer: Highlander and characters belong to Panzer/Davis Productions & Rysher Entertainment. The X-Files and characters belong to Chris Carter & Ten Thirteen Productions. No infringement of copyright in intended - this work is not produced to generate income. The only reason for its existence is to get these guys out of my head and to stop 'em from bugging me. Well--maybe not the *only* reason :-)  
Author's Notes: Very little plot in evidence...sorry, but these three have enough angst, enough terror from other people...they just wanted a little side trip, a little time out of mind... a little peace... although, oh my, it seems a plot has sprung it's cheeky head, darn it, for next time. Thanks to Red Valerian for giving me the nod on this one-it's my first time in the X-Files universe. I like it. I think I'll stay :-) I live for feedback -- please write me with constructive criticism or blatant brown-nosing at -- it's the fuel to keep me going:-)  
BTW-- Anybody get the title?  
Summary: Mulder travels to the west coast to check up on some unsolved murders... and discovers more than he bargained for.

* * *

Corposant

Seacouver, Present day

There had been lots of moments in Mulder's career when he knew he'd been screwed. Moments that had caused an overload on his adrenals long afterwards. Moments that had him nearly pissing in his pants when someone he felt responsible for was threatened in a situation he had no control over. Mind-numbing, body-stressing fear. Not that he liked to admit it, to himself much less to anyone else. Fear was weakness. Mulder wasn't weak. He hated thinking he was weak. He detested it when his passionate emotional displays earned him patronizing tones from Scully or glances askance from others. He knew they often thought he had lost it. His strength was buoyed by the certainty he had a mission. Mulder knew he was invincible, he could leap tall buildings with a single bound, could arise from the dead like Lazarus.

Or at least he sincerely hoped so, considering the snub-nosed .9mm automatic shoved into his left side. Scully always accused him of having nine lives; he found he wasn't quite ready to test out that theory yet.

Mulder was contemplating where this latest event fell in the continuum of his own UFOs: Unexplained and Fearful Occurrences. In his seven or so years since he had discovered the X-Files, Mulder had seen and read about nearly every kind of phenomenon imaginable. The "I Want To Believe" poster in his office was more than a joke, it typified his life.

His life, a joke.

I want to believe.

Yeah. Right now he wanted to believe that he hadn't stumbled over a new type of alien, yet another in a long line of alien life forms whose existence he kept encountering but could never prove. Or maybe they were genetic anomalies, another kind of mutated being, the type that Scully so adored uncovering then proving the origins of to Mulder. Hell... he thought about it, and it honestly didn't make all that much difference to him. Local freak or one from out of town, the difference was not all that important at this very instant.

The gun shoved harder against his kidneys, and the body behind the weapon slowly moved around in front of him. His eyes took in the sight: a slender male, about his own height. Black hair shorn closely, long bony face, Roman nose, cold hazel-green eyes. Shit, nearly his own color, maybe not so bright a green as his own. More gold. Definitely colder.

"Are you thinking of joining the party?" Baritone rumbles in perfect Queen's English. It brought back echoes from long ago Oxford days. Mulder felt like a helpless mouse being mesmerized by a weaving cobra, jewel-bright eyes of death paralyzing his vocal cords. "I'd advise against it. I don't like people who don't play by the rules, who gang up on friends of mine."

Against his will, Mulder's eyes slid over to the other side of the warehouse where a heaving figure knelt. Amazingly he was still alive, leaning with weariness on a sword. Inanities tumbled from Mulder's mouth. "He's your friend?"

A snort from the Brit in front of him. "You find that hard to believe?" A hand began patting him down, searching inside his suit coat and pausing as it brushed over his standard-issue waist holster, gun snapped in place. Eyebrows raised over those jewel eyes. Without a word the Brit withdrew the Smith & Wesson, pocketed it and returned to the pat down. Finding his wallet, a quick flick of wrist flipped it open and the Brit flicked his eyes over the ID. When they looked back up at him, Mulder swore they were full of mirth.

"I've heard about you, Fox." The name came from slyly grinning lips.

"Mulder, the name's Mulder," he bit his words off. He didn't care that the .9mm was still buried in his side, he was damned if he was going to let some weird maybe-alien call him Fox in that snide tone of voice.

The slender Brit shrugged and resumed his search, finding Mulder's spare tucked at his ankle. It was also shoved inside the Brit's coat and he gave a flat-handed push to Mulder's shoulder blade. "Come on, time to go."

"Go where?" Adrenaline surged through Mulder's bloodstream, causing his fists to clench spasmodically and his body to twitch. The old 'fight or flight' syndrome. Yeah, he'd guess he was definitely in a seriously threatening situation, no doubt about it.

"Don't worry, Fox, I'm not interested in your head." With that reassuring thought, Mulder kept walking forward toward the side door. A soft mutter reached his ears. "Yet."

Great, just great, Mulder thought. Once again, the brilliant Special Agent Mulder has gone off without his partner, hell his partner thinks he's safely asleep at the hotel. No one knows where he is, or what he's doing. It would be a breeze for the two to simply do him here, dispose of the body in a thousand different places, and no one would ever be the wiser. As they walked across the warehouse floor to exit the building, Mulder's thoughts raced around, spurred on by the adrenaline rush. Not for the first time, Mulder seriously contemplated that he was an adrenaline junky, that he actually got off on the danger. That it was the only time he ever really felt alive.

And that chasing down the truth was the only thing that really mattered to him anymore. Even the idea of his possible death didn't seem to evoke too much of a horror in Mulder, only a kind of regret that it would interfere with his finding and exposing the truth.

Or then again, maybe not, his thoughts kept leaping while he warily moved forward. After all, access to all realities must be pretty extensive once you're non-corporeal. So he at least could discover it for himself, if not be able to expose it to the world. Now there's a thought to make death look more attractive.

Just got to give up sex in all its wicked permutations, Mulder-boy. I hear that non-corporeal sex is kinda flimsy.

He nearly grinned at his own gallows humor but the gun shoved into his back halted all motion. "Wait." Another search tracked down his handcuffs.

"So what are you two? Shape-shifters? Alien bounty hunters? What's with the swords and the electrical display?" The Brit ignored him. "Do you really think you can kidnap me and get away with it? If I don't check in with my partner every hour, she'll call out the troops. And she knows I was trailing MacLeod."

That bluff earned him nothing more than a droll look from the Brit as his arms were yanked behind his back. Mulder fumed silently as his wrists were clamped together, and the rear door was opened in the 4X4 vehicle. The Brit reached in, fumbled around in the items on the floor, and pulled out a roll of silver duct tape. Just perfect, Mulder thought as a piece was slapped over his mouth. "Silence is golden or in this case, silver," the Brit smiled like the devil himself. "Get in." Easier said than done, with hands behind your back, but the Brit gave him a boost and Mulder found himself propelled face first into the back seat of the vehicle. The lock was engaged and the door slammed shut.

Morosely, Mulder watched as the Brit turned to help his long-haired friend out of the warehouse, thinking how his own cuffs had been on him more often than on his suspects. A totally annihilating realization. The vehicle rocked as the other two climbed into the front seat and slammed doors. The engine gunned and the Brit took off down through the maze of warehouse alleys, eventually emerging onto the sparsely lit Seacouver city streets.

When the silence was broken, Mulder nearly started. "Damn, I'm wired. Those two I took weren't neophytes... they had plenty of heads under their belts." It was the long-haired friend, the one Mulder had been following all evening, one Duncan MacLeod. Followed right into that warehouse. His accent was British, but not the clear upper-crust vowels of the Brit. It had a hint of Scottish brogue mixed with other, undefined accents.

"We'll be home soon, Mac," the Brit assured his friend, humor and concern shading his words.

The long-haired swordsman turned around and peered over his shoulder at Mulder. Exhausted chocolate brown eyes were sunken in a tanned face. Even worn out, the Scot looked totally edible. Mulder had tailed MacLeod from his residence and place of business earlier in the evening, amusing himself with the thought that at least he had total eye candy to fixate on for hours. He'd watched those chocolate eyes laugh and smile earlier, then later turn black with-- with a kind of death lust.

Now they only looked at him wearily. "What're we going to do about him?" A thumb was shoved in his direction.

The Brit sighed. "I don't know. Let me think on it. For now, we'll take him with us." A flash of white as Brit grinned at his friend. "It'll be...cozy, don't you think?"

Growls and grumbles emanated from the passenger seat. "Shit" was rather clear, then, "I don't know if I want to wait..." in a petulant voice.

That earned the tall Scot another brilliant flash. "So impatient. Guess I should be flattered."

A snort. "Doesn't have a thing to do with you, y' skinny idiot. It's the two Quickenings I took."

"How complimentary. You can always take care of your own needs," wintry chills were invoked in the Brit's tones.

"Ah...damn. We'll start sniping at each other now since- You took one, too. We're both wired." MacLeod leaned his head back against the head rest. "Sorry. Just- testy. You've spoiled me for my own devices, Adam." A gentle hand reached out and caressed the nape of the Brit's neck.

Adam, Mulder thought. Adam who?

The passing street lights were illumination enough for Mulder to see Adam rub his cheek against the petting hand with small cat-like motions. "We can always lock him up downstairs for a while. Or in a closet."

Mulder grimaced. Oh please, no closet. I hate closets.

MacLeod glanced back at Mulder again. "We could at that. He'll keep." Mulder was dismissed as MacLeod turned back toward Adam. "But I don't think I will." His low growl was accompanied by his hand dropping casually onto Adam's thigh to knead, stroking through the denim.

"Mmm, you hussy," Adam's faint murmur reached Mulder's ears.

Perfect. I have to wind up with two possibly-alien killers who get their rocks off by whacking heads with swords. Mulder moaned behind his gag.

Cobra eyes met his in the rear view mirror. "I think we're shocking Agent Fox, Mac."

A sigh, and the hand retreated and a chagrined look settled onto MacLeod's face.

Mulder looked out the window, watching where they were headed as his mind raced ahead. They'll find the rental car in the warehouse district. No witnesses, no traces. Scully will search exhaustedly, but everyone will be long gone. Especially me. Mulder let the fantasy continue until they pulled up behind MacLeod's residence. He let the bizarre images of his own nearly-empty memorial service fade as Adam shifted into park. The two men got out, stood together while helping him out of the back seat. Car lights flashed over them as another four-wheel-drive vehicle pulled up abruptly next to them in the alley.

"Dammit," MacLeod muttered. "I swear he has a built-in radar. Think we can lock him up too? All I want is fifteen minutes alone with you. Ten, ten minutes."

"That's all? I don't know, Mac, not the way I'm feeling," Adam sighed. "We're going to have to talk to Joe first. It won't take long." Adam shoved the gun barrel back in Mulder's kidneys. "Come along, Fox."

Mulder craned his neck to see a silver-haired man get out of the vehicle with awkward, slow movements. He stopped by his car and surveyed the trio ascending the outside stairs. "Christ almighty, MacLeod. Who's that?"

"Complication," MacLeod bit off.

"Our latest toy," Adam smiled nastily at Mulder.

Both men spoke in unison, then glared at each other before looking back toward the newcomer.

Silver-hair shook his head. "Never mind. I think I don't want to know."

"Coward," MacLeod said under his breath.

Adam shoved Mulder up the stairs. "Oh I don't know, Joe... this one might prove useful."

"Yeah?" Mulder looked down to find the man, Joe, making his way toward the steps by aid of a cane, looking at him. "Seriously useful?"

"Very. But we'll talk about that later. Right now you're here for a report."

Joe paused at the bottom of the steps. "If that's okay..."

Mulder's captors looked at each other, speaking wordlessly. Sighs were audible in the nighttime silence. "Might as well," Adam capitulated. "Come on up."

MacLeod unlocked the heavy door. "I need a drink. A stiff drink." He made a face at Adam, who worked to stifle his laughter.

Mulder felt more and more like he'd walked into the set of an unknown Shakespearean comedy. Or an episode of Hitchhiker's Guide or The Twilight Zone, with a little Blake Edwards mixed in, Mulder thought as they made their noisy way to an upper floor in an old freight elevator.

They shoved him into a chair well away from the entrance. Mulder looked around the loft room, MacLeod's residence. Large, open space. Lots of artifacts and unusual oddities scattered around on walls and furniture, antiques of value mixed with mundane practicalities. Whoever he was, whatever, MacLeod had taste. And the money to indulge it.

Mulder watched as MacLeod poured out a large tumblerful of wickedly expensive scotch, while Adam beelined for the fridge, selected a beer and irreverently tossed his beer cap over the top of the appliance. MacLeod shot him a dirty look, but forbore commenting, turning his attention to the silver-haired man. "Joe, drink?"

Mulder watched the man sit stiffly on a wooden chair opposite his own. "Nah, thanks, Mac. I won't be long. Actually, I started out to warn you about Grouper. Guess I was a little too late. Mike called me on the cell phone."

Mac exchanged a look with Adam. "Grouper? Was that his name?"

Joe leaned back in the chair. "Actually, Grupenski. Went by the name Grouper. Mean sonofabitch, into drug trafficking, flesh, you name it. Ties with organized crime. Lately he'd gone on some kind of an ego trip, challenging anybody who crossed his path. Bitch of it was, he kept winning. And he wasn't all that great."

"Maybe not at sword fights, but he was a hell of a good contingency planner," Adam lazed back on the couch, feet propped up on the coffee table and took a swig of beer.

MacLeod sat down next to Adam slowly, sighing as he lay his head back on the cushions. "Yeah, but not as good as you." Eyes closed, MacLeod let his head slide over and fall against Adam's shoulder. "Did I thank you for saving my life back there?"

"Yes. But you can do it again," Adam exchanged a smile with Joe.

"So, all three guys went down. Grouper's Watcher was outside, couldn't see in. What happened?"

"I went to a prearranged meet with Grouper. He just failed to tell me he was bringing friends," MacLeod yawned.

"Good thing I didn't listen to you about staying home, Mac, or you'd be one dead duck right now." Adam sipped some beer, shaking his head at Joe. "Can you fathom he still believes in the basic, honest integrity of your average Immortal? After four hundred years, he's still a bloody innocent."

MacLeod's eyes remained closed. "That's all right, Adam, I have you doing your best to corrupt me in every way imaginable. And some unimaginable."

Adam's mouth opened then shut on that sly humor, and Joe laughed so hard it took him a moment to catch his breath. "Now those are the kind of color stories I'd love to have for the Chronicles."

MacLeod's eyes flew open on that. "In your dreams, you peeping tom."

Joe was still chuckling. "Well, guess that's my cue to take my leave." Abruptly, Joe's brilliant blue eyes tracked over to where Mulder sat without moving, taking everything in. "Hey, I forgot about him. Who is he?"

"An unfortunate witness to the night's proceedings." Adam's mouth thinned.

"Ah... possible future team player?" Joe was looking at Mulder with heavy speculation. "And why the cuffs and the gag?"

"Yeah, for god's sake Adam, let the man loose," MacLeod put in.

Adam shrugged. "You'll be sorry." But he took two steps over to Mulder and ripped the tape off in one quick pull.

Shit. "Ouch."

"Don't be such a wuss, Fox." Adam took the keys and released the cuffs, then lazed back down on the sofa.

"Wuss? I think you might have taken some of my skin with that tape." Mulder rubbed his face to lessen the pain.

"Fox? What in the hell kind of name is Fox?" Joe was eyeing him, frowning. "You don't look Native American."

"Neither did my father, a descendant of a great chief of the Massachusetts tribe," Mulder delivered with a straight face and laconic tone.

Joe narrowed his eyes at Mulder for one last look, then dismissed him and began to rise.

Hell, everybody's dismissing me without a thought. I might as well be chopped liver tonight. Why couldn't they have dismissed me back at the warehouse?

"Well, gentlemen, it's been good to see you both in one piece. I, uh, I have to say I was a bit worried for a while."

"Yes, Dad. We made it home okay, and no dents in the car, either."

"Anybody ever tell you MacLeod, you got a smart mouth?" Joe narrowed his eyes.

"Adam tells me it's positively inspired."

Adam nearly spit out the beer he'd just swigged, choking and snorting as he tried to laugh, while Joe turned a lovely shade of red to contrast with his silver hair. "You two are incorrigible. Try not to kill each other," he pointed at Mulder without even looking at him, "or him either. I've got enough bodies to bury tonight." With that parting shot, Joe walked slowly to the elevator and got on. MacLeod roused himself enough to hop up and help pull down the gates.

"Sleep well, Joseph. Thanks for the concern," Mac stood watching as the car ground its way down and out of sight.

"Alone at last," Adam was full of whimsy.

"Not quite. Although if you'd like, I'll be more than happy to make your wishes come true." Mulder tried out his most earnest, innocent look as he stood up.

Both men ignored it. Adam looked at him thoughtfully. "You thirsty? Want a drink? Water, juice, beer-"

"Beer sounds good." What the hell, if he had to stay, he might as well enjoy himself. This may be the last chance. Mulder took the bottle with a nod, a great draft of icy yeasty, hop-flavored liquid sliding down his throat in one gulp. He debated swilling it quickly and getting another, let the alcohol hit his bloodstream fast to lessen the impact of an unknown future, but he couldn't. Couldn't abandon himself to any fate that easily. "So what do you plan on doing with me?"

MacLeod had closed his eyes again. Adam circled around the table, pacing a bit, eyeing Mulder. "Well, well, Fox, I don't know. Let me see, would you be amenable to just forgetting about those three bodies you saw being decapitated this evening? No, I didn't think so. In that case...." Adam strode to a door in the wall beyond a tall armoire. He flung it open, clicked on a light. A few muffled thumps and fifteen seconds later, he reemerged. "Your lair for the night, Fox."

Mulder thought Adam looked too pleased by far, and hopped up to see just what it was- Shit. It was a closet. A big closet, with built-in shelves all around, but a closet nonetheless. He'd deposited a huge comforter on the floor, a couple blankets and a large pillow. All the comforts of home.

"Hey, I'd rather do anything than spend the night in there. Look, cuff me to the sofa, I'll sleep on the sofa."

MacLeod stirred at that. "I think not. I'm sure you'll be glad of the privacy."

"I-" He might have a point. Live front row seats weren't his usual kink, videos not withstanding, although it was extremely disconcerting to find himself mildly aroused by the thought.

"C'mon, Fox, use the bathroom, then it's beddy-bye time." Adam waggled his fingers at him, pointing to the bathroom door. As Mulder entered and began to close the door, Adam stayed it with both hands. "Uh-uh-uh. Keep it open. No funny stuff."

Pissed off, scared even though he didn't want to admit it, Mulder used the toilet then splashed water over his face and hands, washing and drying off on a towel hanging on the wall, delaying the inevitable.

"Okay, Fox, in you go. We'll see you in the morning. Right now, I've got an appointment to keep." Adam pushed the door closed, and Mulder heard the lock twist and the bolt slide into place.

Shit.

Mulder looked around. At least there was a light in here, an electric light, it wouldn't run out of batteries. He drained the rest of his beer, placing the bottle on a shelf. Leaving the overhead light on, Mulder settled down onto the comforter, drawing up two of the blankets over his lanky frame, laying back on the pillow. Checked the door frame carefully, looking for cracks large enough for adequate ventilation. Could one suffocate in a closet? Great, Mulder, he thought. Just let your paranoia run rampant. He lay back and wished faintly he'd asked for that second and third beer. A nice buzz would be welcome right about now.

Murmurs and noises could be heard through the door, drawing Mulder's attention away from his self-absorption. Curious, he scooted over next to the door with his make-shift bed, leaning against it propped on a pillow, ear plastered to the wood. Laughter, soft murmurs. Something thudded onto the floor, then repeated again. Shoes? More indistinct murmurs, more laughter. Silence. Then-

"If you don't get your sweet ass over here onto this bed now, I won't be held responsible for the outcome."

Mulder pulled away from the wood like it was on fire, feeling like a teenager caught with a cache of dirty pictures. Scooting his pallet back to where it was before, he lay down and wished he had a book, a radio, anything to distract him from what was obviously and at times, noisily occurring in the room beyond. I'm being held captive by some unknown beings, Mulder thought. Not necessarily human. Definitely murderers. The noises escalated briefly then subsided. Sexual deviants, he thought, getting turned on by the act of killing. Not exactly your guys next door.

It was embarrassing that he liked them so much, both MacLeod and Adam, even their older friend Joe. Mulder wondered what that said about him, then thought again, realizing he really didn't want to know, preferring to keep a few ideas of normalcy about himself intact, however erroneous.

The noises from the room beyond were becoming audible again, occasional voices, moans. Purposefully, he blocked it out and began to think about what he had heard and found out this evening concerning the incident and the men involved. Who was Joe? Why did he want a 'report'? He certainly seemed to have some kind of link to information and tracking. He was coming over to warn MacLeod of the presence of Grouper. Grupenski. Mulder let his mind play with that name, see if he could come up with a memory of anything over the wires, any FBI report, but nada. Nothing he remembered reading.

Mulder was more than half convinced that these were alien beings. The organization and sophistication of their knowledge and operation, plus the specific targeting of certain individuals for killing. Killings, even the killings. What was that he'd seen this evening? Certainly he'd seen five men willingly engaged in swordfights, odd enough. But the beheadings, the electrical storm, the damage it caused. Briefly his mind flashed back to Darin Oswald and his unusual electrical capabilities. How he'd caused people's deaths with it. Could these men be another kind of mutant along those lines? If so, then what were they doing? Why target certain individuals? What was Joe's 'report' all about? Was there some kind of secret vigilante organization, necessitating chronicles and reports, tracking individuals all over the world? Were they aliens, hunting down their own kind for some reason? But the man, Joe--why create a handicapped physical form? Or was there some reason for the problem?

Mulder's mind swam with possibilities. Extreme possibilities, he smiled to himself. What would Scully say? Abruptly reminded of the goings on in the next room, Mulder had to acknowledge he was very glad she wasn't here to comment. Things seemed to have quieted down, and Mulder allowed himself to fall down into a hazy twilight, a kind of semi-awake stupor preceding sleep.

Morpheus was just docking the boat to pick him up when sudden loud noises from the main room jerked him back to the closet.

"Oh god Methos, now!"

After that outburst, Mulder couldn't begin to identify the sounds, sounds which were obviously, embarrassingly, arousingly being made in the heat of passion, but how? There were loud snaps and cracks which reminded Mulder of earlier in the evening, the discharge of electricity he'd witnessed in the warehouse. He heard groans over the static, and it seemed to go on for a long, long time. Mulder irreverently wondered if this were a climax, he'd like to have one that long and powerful, still listening to the noises trickling in through the door.

Finally everything calmed down, and quiet descended upon the loft once more. After five minutes without hearing a sound from beyond, Mulder figured they had gone to sleep. And no wonder, probably all worn out after that bout of- Dammit, don't go there, he chastised himself.

Too late. He lay awake for a long time, unable to recapture that sense of drowsiness he had earlier, unable to make his partial erection go away.

*^*^*^*

"Wake up, Sleeping Beauty," a crisp British accent rumbled.

Nice voice, sexy.

"Thanks. Glad you think so."

That penetrated, and Mulder sat up fast, eyes blinking as the sunlight streamed in the door from large windows in the loft. He blinked, scrambling to orient himself. His thoughts tumbled out unencumbered by mental interference. "You two aren't vampires, at least. Sunlight."

The Brit, Adam, was kneeling next to him, uninhibited laughter sparking from his mouth and eyes. "No, no vampires. Good guess, though." He held out his hand, helped Mulder up. "Hungry?"

Mulder eyed him warily. "Not for blood, I had my fill yesterday, thanks."

Adam shook his head. "Come on, wash up. Mac's cooking breakfast."

As Mulder left the closet, he could smell the myriad food smells emanating from the kitchen. Bacon. Coffee. Yeast, cinnamon. His mouth began to water. If he was going to die, he was going to die well sated. He looked down at himself. Wrinkled and unwashed, but well fed.

Using the bathroom to relieve himself and wake up, Mulder arrived in the kitchen to be shuffled into a chair at the counter by Adam. MacLeod raised the coffee pot and his eyebrows. Mulder nodded and a large mug was poured in front of him. Heedless of the heat, he blew on it and took a welcome mouthful. After the fourth sip, he began to feel the caffeine hit his bloodstream, waking up the synapses sluggishly firing upstairs. He felt his brain began to kick back into racing gear.

A plate was placed in front of him, bacon, eggs, sliced fruit. A basket of hot cinnamon rolls straight from the oven was placed central on the table, butter next to them. Without ceremony, the three men dug into the food. MacLeod got up once to turn the final batch of bacon still cooking on the stove, and detoured by his stereo to push in a CD before coming back to his breakfast. Classical guitar pulsed from the speakers.

Mulder felt like Rip van Winkle, awakening from sleep in an unknown and unfamiliar world. Wondered what his partner was doing right about now, after discovering the car's and his absence.

"We've got your car here for you," MacLeod spoke up, leaning back in his chair and sipping coffee. "Joe had someone drop it off here early this morning."

"Gee, thanks. Anybody remember to call my partner?" Mulder asked straight-faced.

As if on cue, a cell phone began to ring. Three pairs of eyes searched--in Mulder's jacket, hanging on the coat rack. Adam retrieved it, holding up before relinquishing it to him. "Stall them. We've got to talk. Then you're free to go."

Eyes locked on the Brit, Mulder's hand closed around his phone, took it. Flipping it open, he answered.

"Mulder, where have you been? Are you all right?" Scully sounded worried and annoyed.

"I'm fine, I was tracking down some leads, ran into some people I know. I, uh, ended up staying for breakfast." Mulder wondered what she'd think of that.

Silence reigned for a few moments. "You could have called. I was worried." Stoic. Resigned.

"I'm sorry, Scully. I, uh, I'll talk to you later about it. See you back at the hotel later on." With typical consideration, Mulder hung up, and looked at the two men watching him.

"I'm going to feel really stupid if I've just trusted what turns out to be my killers. So talk to me, please."

Adam and MacLeod exchanged a look, silently communicating. MacLeod poured everyone more coffee, and they urged him to bring his mug over to the living area, make himself comfortable. Mulder sat down in a corner of the sofa, Adam on the other edge, MacLeod leaning back easily in a wooden platform rocker.

Adam took the lead. "Other than vampires, what other kinds of Immortals are you familiar with?"

*^*^*^*

"What about the case?" Assistant Director Walter Skinner got right down to the most important point.

"I've given them the profile we worked up. Yesterday we followed up on the investigation leads, uncovered a few new ones. Scully is following up on them today. I honestly don't think there is anything more I can add to the investigation right now, until there's some new developments." Mainly, another body. Which there won't be, not now. All evidence will be vigorously swept away before anyone detects. Mulder shuddered.

There was silence over the line, just the faint echo of Mulder's own breathing. "Agent Mulder, if it's that important, then I'll sign off on your leave. You certainly have more than enough saved up." Skinner paused, and Mulder could all but hear the wheels turning. His voice when he spoke was still gruff, but somehow hesitant, sounding unusual. "Is everything all right, Mulder? If there's anything wrong..."

"No, no, everything's fine, sir." Just peachy keen. "I, ah, I just need to have some time off. Personal business." His voice sounded thin and thready even to his own ears.

"Personal business." Another pause. "Agent Mulder, Agent Scully reported to me you'd met up with some old friends of yours... these old friends aren't going to prove a problem for you, are they? If so, please let me know now. I'd like to help."

Prove a problem. Now there's an understatement. Not much to be done about it, though. "Thank you sir, but these really are personal friends. There's no government involvement here. Nothing to worry about." Definitely a conspiracy, definitely a source for more than a few X-Files, but most definitely no government involvement. At least, up until now, and Mulder's advent on the scene.

A sigh. "All right, Mulder. I'll have a chit submitted for a week of personal leave. I expect to see you back here in seven days' time. In one piece," the last said dryly, and Mulder smiled with great irony.

"I'd like to see that too. Thank you, sir."

Mulder hung up the phone, shook his head. Skinner had sounded concerned, as if Mulder's 'old friends' was a cover up for something going down concerning their known, or unknown as the case may be, enemies. Nice to know he cared, Mulder realized. He was so used to having people prefer to see him get into trouble, or wanting to see his retreating form; when he encountered another response, it bemused him. Although, Mulder knew he wasn't being totally fair in his reaction to his boss's concern. Skinner has expressed it before, had helped Mulder out of quite a few tight spots. Had lied to him, too, but Mulder pushed that thought aside. Skinner had confessed it later on. All in all, they'd started to build a shaky, but fairly decent, relationship of trust. It was just hard for Mulder to give trust to anyone, in any form. It went against the grain, his carefully nurtured sense of betrayal and paranoia having been homegrown so early in life.

Pushing those thoughts aside, he went back over the impossibly bizarre revelations he'd been given today. What would he have said if Scully were still here, still able to question him, her penetrating blue eyes piercing him as they tried to see behind his words? Better she's out today, working on leads . Not that they were going to get her anywhere, Mulder thought. He wondered how he could get her to go back to DC as soon as possible. No way he could simply dismiss the case, since Seacouver regional called them in, asking for their help. Scully would be sticking around until she had exhausted their leads. He'd done the prelim profile, they had that to play with now. Thinking of it made him laugh out loud at the ludicrousness of it. No threat that his profile would uncover the truth.

It was just another notch in Spooky Mulder's belt that he'd felt an itch to tail MacLeod yesterday. A notch no one in the FBI would ever know about, how Spooky had done it again, had sniffed out the cause of the murders. This was one case that would go down unsolved in Mulder's stats.

Exhausted, Mulder checked the alarm clock. 12:03 p.m. burned a steady red color on his eyes as he stared. Only the flashing of the 3 into a 4 snapped him out of it. His eyes felt seared and dry, as tired as the rest of him. In a totally unusual and spur of the moment decision, Mulder curled up on his bed, deciding to take a nap to make up for lost sleep last night. He could barely keep his eyes open now. When he awakened later, he could go for a run, wake up properly. In a very un-Mulder event, his eyes were shut before his head hit the pillow, his face evening out in the peacefulness of sleep.

*^*^*^*

Three days later

It was amazing, it was awful, it was wonderful. Mulder had to admit, this was the first stretch of days in memorable history that he hadn't thought more than once or twice about aliens, about his sister Samantha. He had spent it glued to MacLeod and his friend Adam Pierson, and their older friend (no, realized wryly, younger friend) Joe Dawson, listening, asking questions, absorbing everything he could pry out of them. Soaking up the truth that was, for the first time in his short-lived but long-felt life, blindingly, unavoidably smack dead in his face. It might not be the truth he was searching for, but oh, was it ever gratifying. If this was possible, what other mysteries was the unknown capable of containing? His blood sang in his veins as he realized the limitlessness of possibilities. Shape-shifters and invisible beings were only a scratch on the surface.

The smoky, dim atmosphere of Joe's place seemed a perfect backdrop to the revelations and anecdotes murmured and laughed about over whiskey and beer, pulsing rhythms and sliding riffs catching the heavy beat of Mulder's blood and mirroring it back to him a hundred fold. Joe's scratchy voice even fit, throaty, vibrant, echoing old hurts and current enchantments in his songs. For the first time in years, in memory, Mulder felt completely alive, felt fulfilled in the oddest way. He wanted to believe, and here was something to believe in. No lies, no government conspiracies. Just- an ancient truth playing out its secrets as best it may. A bloody, violent, seductive, fascinating reality.

Adam Pierson lounged back in what Mulder recognized early on was a habitual pose, beer in hand. "You look about sixteen years old," the smile in Adam's voice and eye shaped his intent.

Mulder laughed, his chin cupped in his hand, leaning forward eagerly on the table. "I feel about sixteen. Just like a kid again." Like the kid he never really had been. "Tell me, what's it feel like?"

MacLeod raised eyebrows. "Immortality?"

Mulder's eyes sparkled. "No, a Quickening."

Adam laughed. "I wondered when you'd get around to that one. Can't you guess?"

Bafflement. "Like a thousand volts of lightening going through your body?"

MacLeod chuckled low, shaking his head. "No, imagine the most mind-blowing orgasm you've ever had."

Adam looked mischievous, "Better than," slid a sideways glance at MacLeod. "Well maybe not better. Nearly as good."

Mulder could feel his face flushing, enthralled despite his embarrassment. "Really? No wonder everyone fights, then."

MacLeod's grin faded. "There's no denying it can be addictive, the rush, the sensation, like no other you know. But there's another side to it, also."

"The darkness, the anger, the overwhelming other that seeps into your mind, your soul, until you wrestle it down, put it to rest." Adam contemplated his beer, frowning. "It can take over your life if you're not careful. Take it over and change you." The mood at the table had plummeted into the somber with their words and expressions. Mulder wondered at their experiences.

In a mercurial shift, Adam grinned evilly again. "And we haven't said a thing about what it does to your libido afterwards."

Mulder instantly recalled the sexual tension pulsing between the two Immortals after he'd watched them fight the other day. Recalled the sounds and the images they had invoked as he lay locked up in MacLeod's closet, and flushed a bright red. "I don't think you need to after the other day." He was still flushing as the other men laughed easily.

"MacLeod, telephone," Mike the bartender hollered over the noise.

Adam gave Duncan an inquiring look and Duncan shrugged, pushing back the chair to grab the phone.

"Want another beer?" Adam's question was accommodating.

"Sure. Thanks." Mulder realized he'd already put back three, or was it four, but he wasn't driving so it made no difference. He watched as Adam walked over and joined his partner at the bar where MacLeod was hanging up the phone. No tension or worry on MacLeod's face, everything was all right. Good. Mulder realized with a kind of fascinated helplessness he didn't want to see the handsome Highlander, as Adam sometimes called him affectionately, running off toward danger, didn't want to know that either of the two Immortals were engaging in a fight. Risking death. Mulder was just getting to know them, learning about their lifestyles, their realities. Exploring the unknown. It didn't have anything to do with friendship, he protested silently, uneasy about his feelings. How in the hell could it? He had only known them less than a week. Besides, Mulder wasn't too good at interpersonal relationships, didn't go around making close friends. This was nothing more than research. Pure science, as Scully was so fond of saying.

Where was his new beer? He saw the two men standing hip to hip at the bar, heads bent close together, long and short hair, slender and more brawny frame. Close, in body language and in reality. Absurdly, Mulder thought of Scully, thought of their closeness, their ability to read each other in many ways after five years together. But it wasn't the same, wasn't like having that intimacy with a lover. Phoebe came to mind, but he dismissed that too. That whole experience certainly turned out to be nothing more than one more lesson that Mulder didn't have what it takes to inspire long-lasting feelings. Inchoate longings and feelings crowded in his chest, his throat, followed by a vague image forming in his mind. It began to penetrate his consciousness but the brakes skidded on that train of thought so fast it was derailed, in a pile-up and buried before he ever really latched onto it. Suddenly very uncomfortable, he shifted in his seat with nervous, antsy movements.

Mulder frowned. Why was he sitting here feeling lonely all of a sudden, thinking maudlin, hopeless thoughts. He felt eyes on him and looked up to see both men turned toward him, MacLeod looking at him with cautious speculation while Adam's expression reminded him of nothing more than sheer deviltry. They exchanged a few more words then walked back over to the table.

"Got to go back to the dojo, my manager needs to leave early. We don't close for another forty-five minutes and there's clients working out. Want to hang out there?" MacLeod stood finishing his scotch, a serene expression on his face.

Mulder relaxed. "Sure. Nothing else better to do." He tagged along after the two, getting into Mac's old T-Bird, one perk of Immortality--living long enough to turn possessions into antiques. Running his hand along the smooth leather and wood of the beautifully kept vehicle, Mulder asked wistfully, "You two going to practice? I haven't gotten to see you in action again after the other day..."

There was a pause and exchange of glances. Mac answered, "If you'd like. We'll wait until everyone clears out though, flying swords with razor-sharp edges tend to be hazardous to their health."

Leaning back in the corner of the rear seat, Mulder gave a silly smile, realizing he was feeling no pain but not caring about it. For once, he knew that no one was going to get to him, no government conspirators, no double agents, no aliens, not unless they were going to come through the two men sitting in the front seat. It was an exhilarating feeling, safety; he wanted to savor it. Wanted to savor the fact that they wanted or needed nothing from him except his belief, his understanding of their lives. That they had extended a trust to him about a secret so outrageously bizarre that if known, it would change the idea of life on the face of the planet forever.

They pulled up to the dojo, parked and went in the front door, immediately surrounded by the muted clinks and grunts of effort and work, the sharp pungent odors of sweat and resin. Adam guided Mulder to the elevator while MacLeod stopped to say hello to the dojo's clients. "Mac's going to play owner for a while. Let's go up and grab a drink."

That sounded fine to Mulder. The old cables ground their way upwards as he looked over at Pierson, wondering. Asking, "How long have you two been together?"

Adam looked back, amusement hovering around his mouth, his green eyes opaque. "Not that long. We've known each other for over three years. Took a while before the posturing stopped."

Mulder thought of swords, the rule of Only One. "I can imagine." The elevator stopped, Adam threw up the gates and headed for the kitchen. Mulder wandered around, fingering the artifacts scattered on the desk, the wall. Took the beer Adam handed him with an absent thanks. "What's it like?" he asked, dreamy and soft as he dragged a finger over a priceless antique silk uchikake hanging on the wall.

Adam's laughter rolled over Mulder, low and amused. "A sense of rare peace in my life. A beautiful Quickening with no darkness. It's going to bed and waking up with the most beautiful man I've ever known, inside and out, and the most honorable."

Mulder backpedaled, "No, I- I meant, being Immortal."

Adam stretched back on the couch. "Oh, that-not as much fun as living with Duncan, I can tell you. Hiding, learning to fight for your life. Lying to people you've come to love. Having to watch them die, or having to leave, move on. Watching people born, burying them years later. Countries rising, falling. It all starts to blur together after a while."

Mulder blinked at that deceptive, throw-away assessment of Immortality. He thought about the two of them, maybe they found some stability in each other against the constantly changing world around them. "What about all the things you've learned? The things you've seen? Isn't that worth something?"

"The pursuit of knowledge, yes. It is. There have been many of us who have done something for the greater good," a wry twist of his lips, "or not, as the case may be. We're as human and fallible as anyone. Mac has a friend, a doctor. She's been carrying out research for decades, working on getting us closer to discovering an anti-viral solution." A darkness passed over his face. "With the bacterial and destructive weapons being built today, uninterrupted research like that may make the difference."

Mulder walked over to a tall metal-framed shelving unit and frowned. "There are solutions to many problems already out there. But they're being withheld by some in power, a global conspiracy. I've seen things, learned things, but every time I get proof in my hand, it slips through. It scares me thinking about what's out there, Adam. Your secret is just one more blip in the sea of all the other secrets that exist in the world."

Adam shrugged, "Wouldn't surprise me. Mankind has ever been a predatory creature, perverse, power-hungry, given to destructive behaviors. I'm always surprised we've come as far as we have. But enough of this depressing subject." A noise, and Mulder heard Adam approach behind him where he was now perusing MacLeod's books. "Not when there are so many other pleasurable things to pursue." A hand ran down his spine, a fleeting caress across his ass then it curved around, moved slowly up his chest.

Mulder's breath caught in his throat, his voice a croak, "Wha--" cracking, "what are you doing, Adam?"

Hot breath curled around his ear, stirring the hair by his face, beer-scented flavor teasing his nose. "You wondered what a Quickening was like. Want to find out?" Adam's hand curled around his chest, fingers curving under his arm. Pulling him back against a long, lean, hard body, heat undeniable. Mulder's brain seemed to short-circuit, freezing solid into a block of ice while paradoxically the rest of his body took flame, erupting into a conflagration of desires. He couldn't control the electric shivering that raced up and down his limbs and torso as he struggled with an answer. Struggled to simply absorb the question, his body against Adam's, Adam's hands clasping him firmly, stroking gently over skin suddenly sensitized to the least little pressure or touch. The slide of his t-shirt over his nipples, the constrictive pressure of his jeans against a groin flooded with blood--Mulder let out a groan, helpless against the force of desire even in the face of his quandary.

"Mmm... I take it that's a yes?" Adam's mouth closed over Mulder's ear, the shivering racing down his spine like electricity.

"But- Mac," Mulder rasped out in confusion through panting breaths. His heart was racing just that fast and he felt like he'd been running for miles. Adam's hands had wandered down to grasp Mulder's hips on both sides, fingers stroking over the creases between thigh and torso.

"No problem. Mac will join us so we can do it right," Adam's words were full of mirth and puckish meaning. Mulder's head was turned by a hand to his jawline, Adam's lips trailing over the scratchy surface, licking a wet trail right up to Mulder's mouth. Adam dived in deeply, tongue surging forward to lay claim to his discovery, hands gripping hard when Mulder's knees crumpled unexpectedly, his body leaning heavily back against Adam's.

"You're certainly making it hard for me to remember to wait for Mac, Fox. Let's go downstairs to avoid further.. temptation." Adam place one more brief kiss on Mulder's stunned mouth, then slowly withdrew his arms from around Mulder's body, forcing him to stand up on his own again. "I'm going to change into sweats since you want to see us spar. I hate having to fight in jeans."

Mulder was still standing there stupidly, wondering how in the hell Adam could simply walk away from that encounter and start talking about sparring. Mulder felt like he'd been coldcocked, but it wasn't cold anymore, he thought, giddy. He watched Adam shuck his jeans and shirt, part of his mind admiring the lean muscular form bared then covered up in well-washed sweats.

"Ready? Let me get you another beer," Adam pulled one out and slapped it in Mulder's hand before dragging him unresisting into the elevator.

The gate lifted onto a barren wooden field, all the players gone except for one lone figure in gi pants and nothing else. Muscle rippled and dark hair flew out from his head as he twisted and spun in a beautiful dance, lethal arms and legs flying. Adam walked away to warm up while Mulder hunkered down by a nearby bench, enthralled with MacLeod's display of grace. He watched, silent for a change both inside and out, awed by the display.

Both men continued their individual warm ups, then they paused, seeming to turn as one to each other and bowed, catching their breaths for a heartbeat. Empty hand combat was their warm up, punching, kicking and sweeping, blocking, falling and rolling with the fall-- Mulder watched it all. Even in Quantico, with the experts stationed there for training, he had never seen such a display of precision and grace. But the best was yet to come. Mac said something low to Adam during a pause, invoking easy laughter from him and a fond swipe across Mac's ass. Mac turned and retrieved his sword from a bench, Adam getting a katana from a wall display. Both moved to the center of the floor, circling, bowing. Waiting.

Adam struck first, parried easily by MacLeod. They seemed to start slowly, testing, warming up to the rhythms of the deadly dance, a live rehearsal for more to come. Feet flew over the wood, the clang of metal against metal reverberating off the walls. Mulder had never seen such sustained fighting, such quick moves without a break. His eyes were hard pressed to follow the action, to catch every little motion and flick of the wrist. It took him a few moments before he realized that they weren't always managing to pull their moves--blood seeped from slices on arms and torsos, thin lines of thick red, before the natural healing kicked in. A flurry of thrusts and parries, then Mulder heard a low curse, and Adam backpedaled away from MacLeod, holding his arm to his left side awkwardly.

Thinking that they would stop, tend to whatever injury Adam had sustained, Mulder was nonplused when MacLeod continued following Adam backwards, never once letting up in his attack. Adam rallied after a rambling retreat, favoring his left side before he began to press forward once more, recovered from whatever wound he'd had. In a sudden move Mulder later wasn't able to recall clearly, Adam swept MacLeod's sword out of his grip, casting it flying away from reach, his own sword materializing out of thin air at MacLeod's throat as he pressed in close behind.

"Submit," Adam said, a low, sibilant seizure of victory. Mulder wondered what the protocol was in matters like this, wondered how they knew when they'd stepped up to the line between play and reality. If they ever might cross it. He watched MacLeod bare his neck even more, stretching backward in a display of trust. Mac's "I'm yours" rolled through the room in eddies of sound, low and even, full of feeling. When Adam leaned in and replaced his sword with his mouth, Mulder was fascinated, wanting to move in and watch from an intimate distance, feeling the heat generated by the two lovers as if it were a tangible flame, wanting also to be singed in the fire. The danger, the excitement of the swordplay had his adrenaline pumping, his blood running fast. Now it began to flow in a southerly direction.

Adam walked toward Mulder as the partners separated, MacLeod replacing equipment and shutting down lights. "You still with us, Fox?"

Mulder still sat on the floor by the office wall. "That was beautiful." He took the outstretched hand Adam gave him.

"Up you go. We're off for the shower," Adam herded him into the elevator, Mac close behind.

A severe case of shyness overtook Mulder, and he was unable to look at either man directly. He heard their murmurs to each other, following off the elevator when the gate screeched upwards. Adam came up behind him, leaning into his back. "Would you like to join us, Fox?" Mulder's face flushed, down onto his neck and chest, and he was suddenly without air. He managed a faint "yes", sounding breathy to his own ears. An arm draped itself over Mulder's shoulders, urging him to move forward into the bathroom where MacLeod had disappeared seconds ago. "Cleanliness is next to godliness. At the very least, it smells better."

The teasing breath on Mulder's ear was the last straw. With a vague whimper, Mulder turned around and pushed Adam back up against the wall, his mouth not a millisecond behind, attaching itself to Adam's neck. He smelled sweat, and musk, his tongue licking the salt trails left behind from Adam's exertions. Mulder ground his groin into Adam's, delighting in the feel of hard muscles and harder cocks smashed tight. Pleased laughter surrounded him, and Mulder felt the heat from another body along his spine. Arms leaned on the wall and caged both Adam and him in their embrace, the laughter reduced to chuckles.

"Adam, are you inciting this boy to riot already? Tsk, tsk, tsk, no patience in the young ones, that's apparent." Mac leaned in against Mulder, letting him feel the heat and strength of him up and down his length. A violent shudder seized him, and Mulder shook from it, digging hands into Adam's upper arms.

"Why-" Mulder leaned back into the strength behind him, tried to twist his head to see, "why?"

"Why am I doing this? Hmmm?" Warm breath ruffled his hair. Mulder nodded, felt Mac move around to the side where he could be seen. Mulder saw the look he gave Adam--saturated, resonant with feeling, oddly naked in a man so singularly composed. "Because Adam wants to."

Because Adam wants to... as if that were all it took, all that was necessary for Mac to know about the situation, because Adam wanted to... Mulder suddenly felt choked, overly replete with feeling. It stifled him, alarmed him, he didn't want it, couldn't handle it, struggled against it, no, no, no--

"Fox. Fox, it's all right," Adam cradled Mulder's head against his own. Mulder dragged in a ragged breath, smelling the earthy pungent scent of the body that held him, proof of its humanity, of its ties to the earth that had nurtured his own form. Different, but the same. Just different in some unknown way. He breathed again, hands clenching spasmodically on Adam's forearms, allowed himself to be lead into the bathroom, undressed like a child by gentle hands. The water was very warm, but not overly so, warming him up when the shudders shook him. Hands molded him, scraping along weary muscles, running soapy trails over his legs and back. Each touch, each brush of skin against skin had him feeling as if his own skin were being peeled back, like a shell of a crab cracked open to reveal the vulnerable flesh beneath.

Still he trembled, tremors nearly too fine to be seen but easily felt by touch. Sliding skin against his own, the feeling of strength and control surrounding him like the warm, humid air he breathed. Kisses--drugging, languid matings of mouths seducing him, revving his tension up a notch, twisting the gut-knife feeling of need deeper, driving his feeling of being out of control even higher, his sense of self-preservation starting to scream a steady wail in his head. No, no, no, too much, too close, he couldn't, he couldn't--

"Yes you can, Fox," Adam murmured in his ear as soft toweling enveloped him, lovingly drying his legs as Mac worked his way down from the top. They worked as a team, unified, focused on a singular goal, and it scared Mulder, his tense body straining against itself. Even as he succumbed to their guidance his inner voice screamed out at him. Ignoring it, he lay back on the cool, crisp sheets, feeling the pressing warmth of two bodies enveloping him, the cover being pulled up as they created warmth to stifle his quivering. They lay curled close, entwined but not demanding, lending Mulder their bodies, their warmth, their feelings--

Mulder nearly jerked out of their embrace, but was held fast by four arms. "No, it's too much, I can't-" he stuttered, incoherent from Adam and Mac surrounding him, overwhelming him, bringing a fine line of panic to the surface.

"Fox, calm down," Adam's voice whipped along his nerves with a sharp edge, penetrating his tumult with a clarifying presence. "There is no threat here, Fox, nothing to fear. Relax, take a deep breath." The order gave Mulder something to focus on, and he grasped it with both mental hands, breathing deeply as he willed his fingers to unclench. He heard the murmur of Adam's and Mac's voices, felt their immediate physical presence like the stroke of a cat's tongue, both sensual and agitating at the same time.

"You know, I hate being called Fox," he gritted out, turning his head into the shoulder of the closest one--long hair teased his face, Mac. He took a breath, willing his fear under control.

Low, laughing chocolate tones caressed his insides, "Sorry, I like it. It fits you. I can just imagine-"

Mulder groaned, interrupting Mac, "Oh no, not the teenage thing--"

"--when you were a teenager, everyone just thought you were so cute, such a fox."

Mulder groaned again. "This is one of the reasons I hate that name, I've hated it for nearly three decades." He was relaxing now, sinking into the sheets and the warmth and the humor he was wrapped in. It had been so long, so seldom that he'd had this, felt surrounded by real warmth, not just the bodily temperature of his current bedmate.

Damp, lulling kisses were spaced up Mulder's spine and over his shoulders, his name interspersed between, "Fox...Fox....Fox...we like it, Fox," Adam ignored his groan, "so you'll just have to live with it." Adam's arms came around him from behind, embracing him, reaching beyond and wrapping around Mac's shoulders, pulling them tightly together. He felt the curves of muscles and the insistent tenacity of aroused flesh, still felt the blanketing sense of the unknown that both these men exuded. Mulder relaxed into the feeling now instead of panicking, relaxed and let it surround him and seep into him like rain into parched earth.

Adam and Mac responded to his surrender with importunity, coaxing muted gasps from him with their focused assault upon his senses. He felt undone, and shocked himself by wanting it, welcoming it. Aside from basic sexual gratification with casual partners, his last real lover had been years ago, and it certainly had not included his being the focal point of two bedmates, both skilled beyond his talents and experience. When hands insinuated themselves down his body, he squirmed, making room for their plundering, groaning out loud as they stroked along his cock with wicked intent. His legs fell open of their own accord, encouraging further attentions which they lovingly gave.

They shifted upon the large bed in the darkened room, its surface like an island, an oasis in the middle of the desert of Mulder's life. Had he even realized how dry his life was, Mulder wondered vaguely, soaking up what was being given to him like a sponge. Accepting and reveling in the feeling of four hands beguiling responses from him, of a rapacious mouth on his, tongue tracing the sensitive ridges of gum, stroking along his own tongue. Of another mouth trailing over his chest, sucking his nipples, biting down just to the point of pain, leaving them pulsating with feeling only to trail away to a new place to play with, until finally hot wet heat covered his aching cock, his pounding pulse throbbing down his length, his need to bury himself over and over in that heat barely held in check.

Faint foreign sounds impinged upon him, a drawer, something else, then there was the feeling of warm slick fingers sliding down between his legs, over his cock and balls, slicking him up and stroking him down. "Oh god don't stop," he gasped out to his tormentors. Warm murmuring and warmer skin teased him now, fingers down below his balls, circling, circling the small rose of puckered flesh, the tease causing him to twist until the fingers pushed in, gaining entry to his body and a sigh of relief from him, a sibilant encouragement given them for their actions.

Someone, Mac, took his mouth in a deep kiss, swallowing his moan as his legs were pushed backward and more fingers stretched out and into his person, paving the way for further ingress. His head whirled, dizzy, and the fingers retreated, replaced by a hot blunt blade of flesh, steady pressure, and it was swallowed whole inside him. The pressure was foreign, and he shifted his hips reflexively to accommodate it, bringing a gasp to his lips and to Adam's.

"Impatient Fox, always plunging ahead where angels fear to tread. And look where it's gotten you now," Adam's whispered words were amused, inviting Mulder to share in it. No condemnation, no annoyance, just easy enjoyment in him, with him.

A minute shifting again of bodies, flesh moving incrementally within him bringing a lightening strike of sensation and a helpless moan. "Gotten me where I am now," Mulder sounded breathless, "I can't complain."

"I should hope not," Adam reached out and grasped Mulder's right hand, bringing it to encircle Mac's cock where he knelt next to him, hands playing over both his partner and Mulder in lazy, sensual strokes. Adam kept his hands over Mulder's, tutoring him in the rhythm he was to use, the strokes that brought a low growl of pleasure from Mac, then took his hands away to grasp Mulder's hips, fingers caressing the crease of his thigh. Flexing his hips back, he stroked his cock slowly in again.

Mulder heard the groan of surprise he gave, wrenched from his depths by the wave of pleasure that broke over him. Another stroke, another groan, and a rhythm settled in, wave after wave of pleasure washing over him like the currents along the shore, never-ending, relentless. He groaned again, twisting helplessly, like the sand, unable to do anything but lay there and receive the gentle pounding. His hand faltered, his attention narrowing down to his own overwhelming physical pleasure, and large hands enclosed his, coaxing and moving his own over the turgid flesh under his fingers. He felt liquid dribbled on his hands, slicking up the skin, easing the friction cause by his strokes, felt the cock inside him angling, nudging his prostate, and helplessly flexed his legs and feet as the sensations rolled through him.

A shifting, a movement, and Mulder opened his eyes to see Mac lean over to take Adam's mouth in a devouring kiss. It was raw with unshielded emotion obvious in their mouths, their faces, and Mulder felt only heat, and boundless satisfaction at his inclusion in this magic circle of two as they continued to touch, to stroke and to pull him into their sphere. In a sudden move, Adam pulled Mulder's legs down from his shoulders, dropping them to either side, and reached down to lift Mulder upright onto his thighs. Mac encircled his back and together they raised him up, impaled on Adam's flesh, helpless in his lap. He cried out at the feeling as Adam slid in deeper, and stretched fully on Adam's flesh, their arms and mouths soothed him.

Murmuring and encouraging, Adam helped him settle onto his thighs while Mac moved behind him, surrounding Mulder in the smell of musk, of male skin, of heat and strength. He leaned backward into that strength, letting them both take his weight, take his body however they desired. His arm twisted back, his hand still lay curled around the rigid cock behind him as Mac thrust now into his hand, covering his hand with one of his own again. Adam began to flex his hips, a small movement but powerful, Mulder responding with his own motion. His head fell backward onto Mac's shoulder, and his mouth brushed Mac's jawline as Adam leaned forward, mating mouths with Mac again. Mulder could hear the slight wet sounds of their lips, their tongues playing over each other; it was erotic in the extreme. His own mouth latched onto the hot skin below Mac's jawline, his tongue trailing wetly down his neck.

Adam's thrusting picked up speed, burying himself faster then pulling back only to bury himself again. The intense pleasure Mulder felt with each plunge came closer and closer together, and he felt the firestorm gathering deep down inside as his balls drew up tight and his muscles contracted. He moaned against hot skin, hand clenching tightly down without thought upon Mac's cock as his own flesh wound tighter and tighter, sobbing his need, hearing Adam's encouragement, Adam's hands milking his own achingly full cock. The firestorm burst open inside, heat flooding from the base of his spine outward, pushing up his spine, pushing out his cock in long hot spurts. His body wracked with orgasm, Mulder rode the storm, twisting, frenzied, muscles strained as he pushed back and down against the bodies enveloping him, pushing him over the edge. Shudders went through him then slowed as the firestorm began to pass, leaving him wrecked upon the shore of his lovers.

They were moaning now, Adam's hand releasing him to draw arms around both Mulder and Mac, the three moving together now like one body. Adam murmured softly, then louder, "Now, now, Mac," and he buried himself to the hilt up inside Mulder. There was a soft groan from behind, then both men pushed in, binding themselves tightly together. Mulder felt something pass through him, a jolt, like an electric breeze, then another, then there came an incandescent shock as he was buffeted by ecstasy so pure it nearly hurt. He cried out again, scared, grabbing for Adam in fear as he felt every cell of his being light up, shining so brightly the room might glow as if in daylight. All he could see was light, arcing, singeing, electric power, in him, in Adam and Duncan, coupling them together so tightly he couldn't even move.

Harsh breaths sounded in his ear, fingers gripping tight enough to leave bruises as the feeling faded, slowly falling away from him and giving his body back over to his own control. The other two slumped bonelessly over him, leaving him to breath deeply and tremble in aftershock. Adam roused himself, pushing a hand through Mac's hair, over Mulder's neck.

"You okay, Fox? Still alive?" Languid indulgence rumbled from Adam.

"Uhhnnn...." Mulder could barely manage to vocalize, much less communicate clearly.

Mac chuckled behind him, moving to help him off Adam's lap. "Another one bites the dust, old man. I think we fried his brain."

Mulder managed a weak chuckle, "Oh yeah..." as he slid bonelessly off Adam's thighs and slithered down onto the sheets, laying like the dead. He felt the mattress shift, heard Duncan speak, "I'll get it," while Adam stretched up noisily next to him. A kiss, a hand through his damp hair, then soft murmurs of the two men talking while they cleaned up themselves and him, warm wet cloth soothing over his skin. Another kiss as covers were pulled up.

"Go to sleep, Fox, we'll be here in the morning to talk."

He embraced their suggestion with his entire being, rolling off the edge of consciousness into the soft clasp of rest.

*^*^*^*

Washington, two weeks later

Mulder let his mind wander away from the drone of the reporting agent's monologue. He'd asked this morning to be included in this meeting, eager to hear the details of the case being headed up by Sanford in VCS. The body had been right, the scene--he'd leapt at the chance to get in on the investigation. Knowing well and good Sanford would try and throw him out if he showed up uninvited, Mulder had pressed Skinner unashamedly for admittance to the meeting, and was mildly surprised at the ease of Skinner's capitulation.

So here he sat, disappointed, trying to figure a way out of participation now that he'd set himself up so well-- it wasn't what he had so precipitously thought. Maybe he should seriously think about giving Joe Dawson a call, as Adam had suggested. Being on the inside would have its own satisfactions, one of which was knowing immediately which cases to obfuscate if at all possible. He thought of this case: death by decapitation, destruction at the scene, yes, but the murder weapon had not been a very sharp object. There hadn't been much left of the deceased by the time the murderer had finished with him--hacking the head off with a relatively blunt object required a great deal of force and lots and lots of blows on the neck, subjecting the surrounding body parts to extreme damage from near misses. It was obvious to Mulder that the perp was someone filled with a lot of rage, as evidenced by the subsequent destruction of the deceased's apartment. Simple human destruction, not the kind brought about by errant electrical discharge. An Immortal Quickening. Mulder shivered visibly. Remembering.

"Something wrong, Agent Mulder?" Skinner's brusque murmur brought Mulder back to the present with uncomfortable abruptness. He saw other agents beginning to move and stand, Sanford now away from the front of the room. The meeting must have adjourned for the afternoon.

Thank god. Mulder was uncomfortably aware of Skinner's steady opaque regard, and cast around for something to say. "Just thinking. Lots of anger in this one, the body nearly looked like road kill. I, ah, I had initially thought it might be related to the Seacouver cases we were called in on, but it's obvious now that this is an unrelated scenario." He glanced at Skinner from the corner of his eye. "But thanks, sir, for allowing me to sit in on VCS's staff meeting. It saved me the humiliation of begging information from the team."

A frown pulled down the edge's of Skinner's mouth, his eyes fierce and dark behind their shield of lens. "Mulder, there should be no need for you to beg. Interdepartmental--"

"Excuse me, sir, but regardless of Interdepartmental rules, no one much, especially VCS, is interested in sharing information with my division." Mulder gave a shrug. "S'okay, I know how to get around it without annoying them. It can take some time, though, and in this one, I thought it'd be easier to sit in on the meeting, get the scoop straight from the horse's mouth. Sir," Mulder added the last on uncertainly, becoming aware of his boss's increasing glower.

Skinner mumbled under his breath, and Mulder blinked. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me, Mulder." Mulder thought he saw a glimmer in Skinner's eyes before he moved to stand up, causing the light to reflect on his glasses and effectively hide his expression yet again. Looking into that blank and controlled face, Mulder wasn't sure now if he'd heard Skinner call Sanford a 'horse's ass'.

 "That's unfortunate your cases aren't related, both sound like they could use an injection of new leads."

Mulder stood up also, and followed the AD out of the emptying meeting room. A slight frown had creased his brow as he wondered why Skinner was being so....agreeable. It always worried him when people were agreeable, but when AD Skinner was, the alarms were tripped. "Yeah, the Washington case is a mess of dead ends." He paused a beat, thinking. "They don't want me to go back out there for any reason, do they?" Maybe Gottlieb had asked for Mulder again, and Skinner was trying to break it to him. Not that he usually had any trouble doing so. Usually he took quiet, perverse delight in presenting Mulder with the paperwork as a fait accompli on cases out of town.

Skinner looked surprised at Mulder's question, and paused near the door to his office suite. "No, not at all." Now Skinner peered at Mulder. "Why would you think that?"

"Oh, ah, just--it would seem like fate."

"Fate? Why's that, Agent Mulder? I suppose you enjoyed your vacation out there, and would enjoy some more time with your...friends?"

Mulder couldn't hide his fluster under Skinner's penetrating regard. "No-well, yes-" he sighed, "yes, I'd like to see Adam again, but not at the price of running down dead-end leads on a nowhere case."

His boss was silent for so long, Mulder was ready to turn and take his leave when Skinner broke the silence. "Don't worry, Agent Mulder, unless there's significant new developments in the Seacouver case, I'd deny any more requests to send you out there."

Mulder began to smile, then stopped, wondering why the AD's words seemed not quite what they appeared to be.

"However, you have three weeks of regular leave that Personnel has notified me you must take before the end of next month, or you lose it. You've carried over the limit for a two year period. Use it or lose it, Agent Mulder. I'll expect to see your leave chit on my desk sometime this week. You, of course, can make whatever arrangements you choose to visit Seacouver on your own time." Skinner delivered the line in his usual understated, gravelly voice, his eyes boring into Mulder's but giving nothing away. Abruptly he turned into his office, his voice trailing out behind him, "Have a good evening, Mulder." He strode across his outer office, said something to his secretary, and disappeared into his inner sanctum.

Bemused, Mulder turned and made his way down to his hidey hole in the basement. He was lost by that exchange--Skinner's words seemed oddly duplicitous for some reason, although Mulder couldn't put his finger on why. Odd, strange. But then what was new--Mulder often thought of his boss as an X-File himself, this instance just one in a long line of reasons.

Ah, well... so he had to take some leave. Dammit, he hated being forced into doing anything, much less taking three weeks of leave. Three weeks. He pushed in the door with his name on it. Leaving all this for three weeks. Trading it in for three weeks of an empty, boring apartment. Three weeks of letting cases pile up and having to catch up on the reading of them when he got back.

Then again, maybe three weeks was enough time for Joe Dawson to run him through the ropes, get him set up with whatever he needed to know about his organization, the Watchers. The more he thought about it, the more excited he became about the idea. Being on the inside. Smiling, he dug out his wallet and a card he'd stuck in it, a phone number for Joe's bar on the front. Punching in the numbers, Mulder realized he was smiling like a maniac as he waited for the phone to be answered. Smiling, smiling... because he was excited about joining the Watchers? A voice answered the phone, and he laughed at himself.

Hell no. He just wanted an excuse to visit Seacouver again. Any excuse, even that boring, no-win situation of a case would've been nice. He spoke into the phone, asked for Joe. Waited for him to come to the phone. Skinner made it plain he wasn't going back out there on official business, then turned around and handed him a private way out there on a silver platter, three weeks must-take leave. Strange. More than strange, like he said, Skinner was an X-File unto himself.

Another gravelly voice answered the phone, and Mulder laughed out loud. "Joe? It's Fox Mulder. Got any room to fit me in next week? .....Oh, for about three weeks...."

-finis-

 

* * *

 

Flash Flood (second in the Weatherglass series)  
by rac  
email:   
website: http://enook.net/hl/rac/rac.htm  
Want to read it on the web with all the nice, fancy formatting in place?  
http://enook.net/hl/rac/weatherglass.htm  
Genre: X-Files/Highlander xover slash  
Sequel to: Corposant (see Weatherglass URL above)  
Archiving: Yes, with all headers intact.  
Rating: NC-17 m/m for serious (and not-so-serious) same-sex sexual situations. If that's not your cup of tea, best leave now. It won't be held against you.  
Disclaimer: Highlander and characters belong to Panzer/Davis Productions & Rysher Entertainment. The X-Files and characters belong to Chris Carter & Ten Thirteen Productions. This work is not produced to generate income.  
Author's Notes: Once again, Very Little Plot in evidence. To be honest, this is the second in a five-part series I've got completely mapped out, and may actually get written by 2010 :-) Heck, it's only taken me nearly three years to get the second one done. If you haven't read Corposant, please read it or you may wonder what's going on. In any event, don't look for serious, canonical worship in these stories...basically, I just wanted to have fun. If you enjoy it, fantastic. If not, then we can discuss how diversity among humans is a Good Thing. Please write me with constructive criticism or to tell me if you enjoyed it:   
Massive thanks go to: Diana DeShaun, who hung in there for three years and four or five different versions; to devo, for loyalty above and beyond; to cdavis, Elizabeth, Diana W., the One Who Shall Remain Nameless <g>, JiM, cdavis, Luminosity, Xanthe: I owe plenty thanks to all these ladies for reading, commenting and general hand-holding (or butt-kicking). You are all great mid-wives.  
Summary: Skinner's curiosity about Mulder's personal life spills over into his own...in more ways than one.

* * *

Flash Flood  
(story two of the Weatherglass series)  
(c) rac / March 2000

After all these years, Skinner thought he was prepared to expect--and get--just about anything from the only field agent directly in his charge. The only regular Special Agent in the entire FBI, out of 11,400 Special Agents, who reported directly to an Assistant Director. The only Special Agent who had the dubious honor of being called before the OPR on a nearly annual basis--and still held a job. The only Special Agent whose unit's per capita budget surpassed many others in the entire Bureau, while keeping Motorola and Lariat in business nearly single-handedly.

The only Special Agent who wore Armani and the ugliest silk ties on the job with a casual, negligent insouciance that set Skinner's teeth on edge.

The only Special Agent--hell, the only person period outside of marriage and post-war counseling--to whom Skinner had ever voluntarily divulged certain personal information.

The only Special Agent that he'd ever had committed, locked up and strapped down like one of the lunatics they hunted, when Skinner feared he'd finally lost it. Twice.

And the only Special Agent he'd ever seen in his 20 years in the Bureau, cozied up to two other men in public like they were the diners and he was dessert.

Sharon's dry, amused tone finally cut into his fixation on the secluded rear corner booth. "You haven't heard a word I've said, Walter. What *are* you looking at?" She twisted her head around to peer over her shoulder and look further back into the Old Towne Alexandria Pub and Grill.

"Our waiter." Skinner immediately beckoned the waiter over, standing handily nearby at the bar. "I need another drink." Or possibly the whole bottle. What damned capricious fate had lead them all to the same Alexandria restaurant this Friday night?

"A night out with me that bad, is it?" Sharon sighed. "I shouldn't have insisted. Although," her finger went up to forestall the words nearly out of his mouth, "I know, I know. If you hadn't wanted to come, you wouldn't be sitting here."

"Damned straight."

He couldn't help it--his gaze flew to the far table, where damned *un*-straight seemed more on the evening's agenda. The slender one with short, dark hair was feeding Mulder food from his plate. With his fingers.

"You're the one who deserves an apology. From me." Skinner's new drink arrived and he sipped it, then set it down in the ring of moisture left from his previous glass. He twirled it restlessly around in a circle. "It's been a long week, I didn't get much sleep. I'm not being very good company for you."

Sharon appeared amused at that. "Walter, after 21 years of knowing you, I'm well aware of your strengths and weaknesses. If I was looking for a lot of animated conversation, I wouldn't be sitting here."

Slice. He'd forgotten underneath her compassion and caring lay a straight-to-the-balls businesswoman.

"So why did you want to meet me tonight?"

Sharon cocked her head and contemplated him. "I have something to tell you, and I wanted to talk to you in person."

Her serious tone registered, pulling his attention away from the floor show in the rear as his stomach did a brief cha-cha. Maybe he should have ordered a few more drinks in advance.

"I wanted to tell you in person. Walter...I'm getting married again."

Ka-chunk. The words fell between them like rocks.

"Married," he repeated, his face frozen in a smooth, blank expression.

Sharon nodded and smiled. "Yes. To a man I met in San Francisco last year, an artist I've shown here at the gallery. Jeremy Hartwell."

An artist. How appropriate. He probably didn't have any trouble emoting and talking about his inner life.

"It'll be a private ceremony here in Alexandria, but we're throwing a large reception afterwards at the gallery."

And marrying the sponsor...a great way to insure the future of his livelihood. Sharon can hover and smother and take care of the prick as much as she wants.

"I wanted you to know since announcements will be printed in the papers. I...didn't want you finding out about it by reading it in the Sunday Post."

Sharon watched him closely, her hand resting over his on the table. In his direct line of sight, right behind Sharon's head, Mulder was still having the time of his life in the corner booth with his...friends.

Skinner forced his gaze away, down to his scotch, peering at the glass as if the secrets of the universe were revealed within. And maybe tonight they were...he just needed to keep ingesting enough of it until they were disclosed to him.

He could feel Sharon's concern as the silence built. Unlocking his jaw, he forced the darkness away from his face and looked at her eyes, still youthful and bright. "You're happy?"

She smiled at him and nodded, squeezing his hand. "Yes."

"Then I'm glad for you, Sharon. You deserve it." He turned his hand over, grasping hers within his larger palm. "We had a few good years, didn't we?" The question was out before he knew it, and he cringed. How much more pathetic could he sound?

A sweet and tender smile blossomed on Sharon's face, and she curved a hand along his jaw, stroking his skin. "Yes, we did. I'll always love you, Walter. Never doubt that."

"Yeah, well..." He looked down, embarrassed and awkward--what right did he have to say anything to her now? "You know if you ever need anything, just call."

She stroked his cheek. "I know, Walter."

He frowned. "I mean it. Anything. We--you--" Christ, he sounded like a blithering idiot. He ground his jaw together. "I owe you. A lot."

"No, you don't." Sharon smiled at him, patted his hand one last time before pulling hers back. "But I know you'll never agree with me, so I'm not going to argue with you about it. The accident wasn't your fault, and you don't owe me anything. I do love you, Walter...you'll always be my friend."

Yeah? If you still love me, then how come you divorced me two years ago? I spilled my guts out to you, wanted to make it work, and you still left me. The words crowded behind his clenched teeth, unspoken. His face felt like stone.

"Well," Sharon began. Awkwardness settled in between them, and he figured Sharon probably knew his exact thoughts even though he hadn't voiced them. She had always been good at psyching him out. "Dinner was great, but I've got a long day at the gallery tomorrow, getting ready for the new show we're having next week. Do you mind if I call it a night?"

He shook his head, feeling defeated and generally demoralized all of a sudden. "No, of course not. Can I walk you home?"

He wouldn't go in, didn't want to risk coming face to face with any of Hartwell's pieces still on display at the gallery. Not right now; God knows what he might do or say at the moment. Headlines reading, "FBI AD Goes Berserk, Trashes Ex's Art Gallery" would not go over too well.

Sharon gathered up her things. "That's not necessary, Walter, but it's sweet of you to offer. It's just around the corner, and the streets are still busy. Why don't you stay, finish your drink?"

She stood, a tall, leggy woman in emerald green silk pants and jacket, drawing admiring looks from neighboring tables. Skinner wondered if she was aware of the scrutiny she received. "Take care of yourself. Even though I know it's futile to say it, don't let that job of yours get to you. Some of us do care, Walter." In a whirl of Red Door and whispery silk, Sharon leaned down and kissed his cheek, then walked to the door and was gone.

Walter sucked down the rest of his drink and immediately waved for another. Marrying. He remembered Hartwell; he followed all the gallery's shows. From the paper's review, Jeremy Hartwell was about 35, tall with long, blonde hair. Real California anti-establishment. About as far from aging ex-Marine and Washington bureaucrat Walter Skinner as Sharon could get.

And that just about said it all, didn't it?

His new drink arrived, and Skinner settled back in the booth, getting comfortable and anticipating the next four or five drinks coming his way. Cabs ran all night, or hell, he could even walk up the street and get a room anywhere in Old Towne. It was Friday, he didn't have to be at work tomorrow. Didn't have to be anywhere. And there was certainly nobody expecting him.

And just whose fault was that?

He sighed and put his head back against the padded booth--and realized abruptly that with Sharon gone, his view of Mulder was unimpeded. He sat perfectly situated to watch the body language of all three men, which told him more was going on behind the shield of table than any casual observer would see. Walter bet they were Mulder's friends from Washington State, the ones he'd taken leave--twice--to visit.

Sometime during his own unfolding drama, they'd finished up dinner and moved on to dessert--not Mulder--yet--although by the body language and the vibes they were sending out, he'd come later. Hell, they'd probably *all* come later.

Skinner frowned, suddenly angered beyond reason. What the hell excuse did Mulder have for this kind of public display? Did the man not have any sense of self-preservation? How many times had Walter sacrificed himself--his credibility and political positioning on the job and behind closed doors around town, his goddamn health, even his life--to help further Mulder's cause? To cover Mulder's sorry ass? To save his damn life? How many fences had Walter straddled, at the risk of losing his balls, trying to maintain his ability to maneuver with some power within the government hierarchy?

And now there was Mulder, cavorting around with his boyfriends right out in the open, making no effort to be circumspect in public, right here in Washington, where a sexual scandal would sink his ship faster than anything else Mulder could do at this point. He could just imagine those nameless old bastards rubbing their hands in glee, watching surveillance videos with enhanced sound tracks.

Blood chilling at the thought, Walter twisted slowly in his seat and began a casual, thorough reconnaissance of the pub's interior, looking for familiar faces or overtly interested diners, but after an exhaustive search, he saw nothing suspicious. He seemed to be the only one interested in the party of three at the rear corner table, thankfully.

Walter waved the waiter over once more, gave him a standing order to keep his glass filled until he said to stop, and settled back with his temper on simmer.

The two men on either side of Mulder both looked about six feet tall, same as Mulder. The one who'd fed him dinner and was now forking up some God-awful dessert into Mulder's laughing mouth was slender, maybe 165 lbs. His nondescript clothes hung loose on his frame, and his haircut was similar in style--if one could call it that--to Mulder's recent refugee look: short, spiky and downright strange. He'd been attributing the look to Mulder's recent stresses and problems, figuring it an indication of how bad things had gotten. But after seeing his companion's hair, maybe it was nothing more than a really bad fad. It didn't do a damn thing for either man, except to highlight the size and shape of their noses.

The other one, though, was a different prospect. Six foot, maybe 185 lbs, more muscular than the first. Long dark hair pulled back at his nape, and he was a man very much aware of his appearance--his burgundy silk shirt and fluid black trousers said that. He sat back and watched the other two with an almost indulgent air, stepping in to deal with the waiter when Mulder and the other one were too far gone in beer and silliness to care. Designated driver, perhaps, although occasionally he also kept a cool eye on the crowd, his faintly frowning brown gaze sweeping around the restaurant restlessly as if searching for something. His behavior set off a jangling across the back of Skinner's neck--what? What could he be on the lookout for?

Skinner's next few drinks only deepened the feeling of unease curling through him. Who were these men who had Mulder giddy like a kid? Not once during dinner or the hour afterward had Mulder been alert enough to recognize that his boss sat 20 feet away. Walter knew Mulder well enough to be certain that the seasoned agent rarely was this unaware of his environment. Paranoia like Mulder's fueled a well-honed awareness--and with damn good cause. His paranoia came from experience. He'd earned the right to have it.

So who the hell were these men who helped Mulder relax his own survival instincts? The last hour and a half of watching them, seeing the look that occasionally flashed in their eyes as they scanned the room--what the hell were they looking for?--Skinner knew instinctively that these men weren't innocuous like Mulder's geek friends who published The Lone Gunmen.

By the time the group at the rear table called for their check, Skinner had put back a healthy amount of alcohol. He could feel it and knew he wasn't unaffected as it pulsed through his bloodstream. But his hand was rock steady as he unearthed his own wallet, laying bills in a neat stack on the table for the waiter. Then he sat back with his glass in hand, comfortably leaning in the corner of the booth. Waiting for the inevitable.

It came as the three men stood to exit, Mulder blinking as if he suddenly remembered other people were in the room. His eyes, a bit unfocused, slid around the restaurant and crashed to a halt on Skinner. Widened and held. He mouthed Skinner's name, and the others turned to him, questioning. Mulder didn't move, slowed down by the beer, and Skinner saw him mouth, 'my boss'. And gestured vaguely with his head. Three faces now turned Skinner's way and stared.

He refrained--just--from making any kind of gesture, despite the urge to grin at Mulder's expression. The three men murmured a few words to one another, then Mulder headed somewhat resolutely in Skinner's direction, and two steps later nearly landed on his ass. Only the quick moves of the slender one saved Mulder from a pratfall on the wooden floor. Slender one kept his hand firmly under Mulder's elbow for support, and the three of them made their way around tables to Skinner's booth.

"Sir...hi. I hadn't noticed you here. Are you, uh, by yourself?"

Bless Mulder, he was determined to tough out the awkward recognition in a show of social amenities. He looked remarkably like a soused puppy dog, hair flopping every which way and just the faintest hint of unease moving through his hazel eyes. It was hard to maintain any anger in the face of that...face.

Skinner set his drink down and sighed. "I am now. Sharon and I had dinner. She left because of an early schedule tomorrow."

"Ah." Mulder nodded, an agreeable, thoroughly ridiculous motion that reminded Skinner of the dolls in the rear windows of cars. Perhaps Mulder had just exhausted his social skills for the evening.

The slender man on Mulder's left side smiled openly and stuck out his hand in a friendly gesture. "Adam Pierson, visiting from Seacouver."

"Walter Skinner, Mulder's supervisor." Skinner felt the need to announce his position in the scheme of things. He took the surprisingly steely grip and felt calluses on the sides and palm of the long-fingered hand. He also noticed the slight widening of Adam's eyes as their hands met, and his sideways glance at the third man as he drew back.

The other man caught Pierson's look and stepped forward. "Duncan MacLeod." Despite the pleasant expression on the man's face, Skinner could see something else passing within his eyes. All three men stared down at him, Mulder with an idiotic, beery grin, and MacLeod and Pierson with strange, unreadable expressions.

Mulder broke the strange tension. "Well, uh, sir--Walter...we were just headed back to the Sheraton, where Duncan and Adam are staying. Got a nice bar there."

"Walking there, I hope?" Skinner didn't bother to curb the dryness in his tone and was rewarded by the red creeping into Mulder's face.

"Hopefully," MacLeod said with a smile. "If not, I'll hail a cab. I'm the designated herder this evening." Amusement threaded through both MacLeod's words and his glance at the other two men.

Pierson chuckled and gave a snort. "Should we 'baa-a-a' for you, oh great Highland sheep herder?" His eyes flashed a wicked look at MacLeod.

Mulder seemed even more awkward, his eyes still on Skinner. "W-would you like to join us?"

Skinner couldn't tell who was more surprised by those words as they tripped over Mulder's tongue: Mulder, his friends, or him. He eyed the three men for a moment before his answer rolled out unexpectedly. "Yeah, thanks. I think I've had enough of drinking alone."

###

Skinner couldn't tell who was more surprised by those words as they tripped over Mulder's tongue: Mulder, his friends, or him. He eyed the three men for a moment before his answer rolled out unexpectedly. "Yeah, thanks. I think I've had enough of drinking alone."

At Skinner's words, Mulder's mouth opened and closed once soundlessly. "Okay," he said inanely.

Pierson and MacLeod exchanged a look over Mulder's head as Pierson yanked Mulder back from the table. "Come on, Boy Wonder, let the man out so he can come with us."

"Oh. Yeah. Sorry," Mulder offered, stepping back further so Skinner could slide out of the booth.

It was an interesting quartet that exited the restaurant and turned up King Street, with Skinner trailing the rear of the pack. At first, Mulder seemed stiff, obviously very conscious of Skinner observing his every move. He turned around to include everyone in his discourse as he rambled on in a disjointed, guided tour of the Old Town area for the benefit of his visitors. But Pierson kept grabbing hold of him, a hand around his head, an arm around his shoulders, a mock jab to his stomach, and soon the two of them were off, rough-housing and bickering back and forth like frat brats.

A more sober and sedate MacLeod fell back in step with Skinner, shaking his head and laughing at the other men's antics. "So you work with Mulder and have to keep him in line? My commiseration."

Skinner gusted out a surprised laugh. "You have no idea." They walked a few steps. "Although--it's good to see Mulder let loose with some friends."

"That sounds loaded." Beautiful brown eyes assessed him. "You'd like to know just who the hell we are, and if we can be trusted."

Skinner had to give MacLeod points for being direct. "Yeah," he said coolly. "Mulder... Mulder seems to have a gift. He's a valuable agent with a talent for diving straight into the heart of trouble." Skinner narrowed his eyes, his voice burning like ice. "Are you and Pierson trouble?"

The smile MacLeod gave him was mirthless, cool and knowing. "Not to Fox."

A shiver ran down Skinner's spine at MacLeod's words.

"We have a similar goal, Mr. Skinner."

"Walter," Skinner corrected.

"Walter," MacLeod nodded. "We don't want to see Fox...get hurt, either. Adam's taken a liking to him, taken him under his wing."

"Somehow, I don't see Pierson as mother hen, or Mulder as his chick," Skinner's dry voice cut in. His mind raced, wondering just who in the hell these two were, and if they meant to aid and abet Mulder in his endless search for proof of the Consortium's doings. Or if, in an even more sinister thought, they were from the Consortium, a new plot sent out to curb and contain their most annoying antagonist's actions.

"Stranger things can happen, Walter. Life can be very interesting," MacLeod proposed vaguely, looking ahead. He called out to the two men who'd gone too far and had begun to cross over St. Asaph Street. "Hey, senile one, the hotel's down this way." MacLeod pointed to the right down St. Asaph.

"Whoops."

The other two retraced their steps and passed MacLeod and Skinner as they breezed down St. Asaph toward the Sheraton. Pierson leaned in toward MacLeod as he walked by and muttered slyly, "I may be old, but age does have its benefits, doesn't it?"

Old? Skinner thought. Skinner was easily the oldest of the group.

"Ass," MacLeod said fondly. "Don't mind him," he said to Skinner, "he's the world's oldest child."

"I heard that!" Pierson called back.

Old. That thought brought Skinner back to himself, and he remembered the real reason he was here, walking down the Alexandria street with these men. He wanted to assess Mulder's friends, to see just how far into their clutches Mulder had fallen and how dangerous those clutches were. Nothing more, nothing else. Nothing, he told himself viciously. This is not your scene.

Better remember that, or you're not going to be a damn bit of good to that drunken idiot ahead of you.

The idiot who blushed like a virgin when you agreed to go back to the hotel bar with them.

The one who's being seduced by that bright-eyed, seemingly innocent--innocent, my ass--Pierson.

The recalcitrant one who's got you sporting this equally recalcitrant hard-on, and not for the first damn time.

Old. Remember that. It might save you from doing something highly stupid.

"Here we are." Pierson and Mulder swept open the Sheraton's front doors in overly-elaborate gestures for the two men following behind. "Enter," Pierson swept them through.

MacLeod stopped at the desk briefly and checked for messages before moving back into step next to Skinner. "I say those two should buy the drinks as payment for us bearing the humiliation of their company in public."

Skinner looked at Pierson and Mulder, Dennis the Menace clones with their matching punk hair; their long, lanky, loose-limbed strides, their ten-year-old behavior as they pinched and jabbed at each other while trading insults. The corner of his mouth quivered. "I absolutely concur." He followed MacLeod across the lobby and into the bar, the other two trailing behind.

It was near eleven, the place was busy as they entered its dim recesses. MacLeod chose a round booth once again in the rear corner, and Skinner knew now for a fact it wasn't a random choice. The restless eyes, the backs to the walls--he wondered just who the hell these guys were. Despite their casual affability and easy relationship with Mulder, something in the grave depths of their eyes moved like hot steel, dangerous, implacable. His gut clenched, uncertain of their real intent. So many plans, so many abortive attempts against three insignificant federal employees--not insignificant enough. Not yet successful enough, either.

Skinner ordered a scotch when the waitress appeared, then settled in to stare at the two men, wondering. He didn't seem to be expected to contribute much to the conversation; Mulder knew him too well for that, and possibly the other two followed his lead, or simply didn't care. But Mulder carried the evening, spinning impossible yarns that drew snorts of laughter and scoffs from the other men. When they turned to him for confirmation, Skinner only shrugged and shook his head, declaring he could never discern the facts from the fiction in anything Mulder ever said.

Abruptly, he felt vaguely as if he had kicked a puppy at the wounded look shining green in Mulder's eyes before the other man looked away, hiding them from Skinner's gaze. Or maybe he had imagined it, since Mulder began to chatter again, off on a new tangent. Skinner had to give him one thing: even drunk, he didn't slur--much--or lose his ability to speak on the widest variety of subjects of anyone Skinner had ever encountered. He would be the perfect person to be marooned on an island with, all that endless knowledge in his eidetic brain for amusement, all his passionate curiosity, his curious passion--

Halting that thought, Skinner chugged his drink and immediately gestured for another. It really was best not to go there. Absolutely best.

Mulder eventually seemed to wind down, creating a small lull at the table, and Skinner spoke up for the first time. "What do you two do?" An innocuous question or so he thought, but it fell into the silence like a rock, heavy and ponderous and causing an odd, tangible shock wave to expand outward from its descent into the group. MacLeod hesitated before smiling.

"I've got a dojo back in Seacouver, more for the love of it than to make money."

"More for the tax write-off, you mean," Pierson interjected, dissipating the charged electricity that lingered with his easy amusement.

"Well, yeah, that, too," MacLeod laughed. "For years, I owned an antiques store. Now, I work with appraisals, or finding a particular piece for clients."

Antiques. Certainly a mobile enough career. It fit right into the spook lifestyle, for spies of any persuasion. "Sounds interesting. Lots of travel."

"Yeah, the best and the worst aspect about it."

Pierson spoke up from where he sprawled in his nook, leaning against the huge planter at his end of the booth. "I teach university, ancient studies. Though I'm currently on sabbatical."

"How convenient." Three sets of eyes narrowed at Skinner's words. "That you're able to take off that amount of time."

"I've always thought so," Pierson agreed complacently, dangling his beer from long fingers.

The conversation died down again, and once more, Mulder, thankfully, spoke up to fill the gap. This time it was the latest techno news from his friends, the three stooges. Skinner vaguely realized his empty drink had been removed and another filled glass set in from of him. Not filled for too long, however, as the conversation swirled in a strangely comforting spiral around him. From the world of techno-paranoia, they segued into the world of academia, Mulder grilling Pierson and MacLeod both, and Skinner found out Mac also taught on a limited basis at the U in Seacouver.

"You thinking of changing jobs, Mulder?" Skinner would have laughed out loud under other circumstances. It was very hard to imagine Mulder walking away from the past six years' of his life's work to teach criminal investigative techniques to obnoxious and bored undergrads.

Mulder gave him a limpid-eyed stare that pinned him to his seat, a gaze liquid and laden with his complex inner thoughts. "Maybe."

Inexplicably, Skinner felt the weight of Mulder's inner thoughts like a tangible thing, pressing and heavy, and a part of him cringed away in fear from the thick need that swirled in Mulder's depths. But it was the other part of him, the part that leapt at the inchoate longing, feeling its weight and reveling in the sensation, that flamed with unwanted heat, sending a hot flush throughout his entire body. The room faded from his sight, only Mulder clear in his tunnel vision. He moved his lips in exact movements by sheer will. "I trust you'll discuss your plans with me before they're a done deal."

Mulder nodded, eyes locked on Skinner as he chugged his beer. "You'll know," was all Mulder said, and Skinner abruptly wondered just how many drinks he'd put back since dinner with Sharon. Just how much alcohol was swimming through his bloodstream and making him feel dizzy and flushed. It was the alcohol. It had to be the alcohol.

He took the glass in his hand--empty now, how many had he emptied tonight?--and set it back on the table very carefully, far away from the edge in fear he'd bungle it and knock it over like a fool. "I think I'd better call a cab," he enunciated carefully, avoiding Mulder's eyes, everything so careful, lest his clumsiness and drunkenness cause him to do something he'd regret later. He already harbored too many regrets.

"Walter." It was MacLeod, the shepherd, the one tending their little flock. "Why not stay here this evening? Then tomorrow morning you won't have to come back and pick up your car."

That's what he'd thought of doing earlier, staying in Alexandria, not going back to his stark and sterile apartment.

"We've got a revoltingly huge suite upstairs, more than ample room for you to stay," MacLeod said.

"I--" Walter hesitated, suddenly paralyzed and unable to speak. I what? Can't? I'm too uptight? I'm too afraid? Of what? Of sleeping off a juvenile inebriation under the same roof as these two secretive, probably dangerous men? Afraid to wake up with a gun to your head just in time to die?

Or is it you're afraid of being too close to the very thing you can't have?

He sucked in his lips, running his tongue along the dry edges where they caught between his teeth, and he realized they were numb. In an absent gesture, he poked at his cheek subtly with the thumb on his left hand. Numb, also. Great, Skinner, pickled to perfection. He realized everyone was looking at him, waiting for his answer.

"Thanks." The easy answer surprised even him. Nothing like an old fool, he thought. But the weight of his SIG rested comfortably under his jacket, reassuring in its presence.

Not that he could get it out of the holster fast enough, or aim it decently at this point. He shouldn't even touch it in the condition he was in, but old fools needed to be reassured by something, however ridiculous.

The gun covered his vague fears concerning Pierson and MacLeod. But his fuzzy brain was coherent enough to wonder what he would do about the other--shoot himself if what he feared loomed too near?

"Good, it's settled, then." MacLeod smiled at him while the other two stared at him with varying opaque expressions. Skinner did his best to ignore them.

By mutual consent, the quartet gathered their few things and pushed away from the table after MacLeod signed off on the check. Mulder avoided looking at him, walking ahead once again with his buddy Pierson, chatting with enthusiasm about god knows what while they waited for the elevator to arrive. Once in its sleek, silk-papered confines, Skinner moved to a corner and let the other three argue the merits of baseball versus soccer--both were playing tomorrow in Baltimore, and they still hadn't finalized plans. He pulled that sense of isolation firmly around him as a defense. This vehicle ran just fine on three wheels. He needed to keep his distance if he was to have any objectivity, but Mulder's hospitable friends were doing whatever they could to make objectivity a moot point.

Skinner contemplated his own state as he walked none too smoothly into MacLeod's hotel suite. Lunacy or mid-life crisis? His choice to stay here had to be due to more than a simple lack of inhibitions due to alcohol consumption, but he didn't want to admit that. Not now.

Mulder argued with Pierson as the lanky man pushed the door closed. "It's not fair. You drank as many beers as I did, and you've hardly got a buzz."

Pierson grinned wickedly. "You should have known better. I can hold my alcohol for an eternity."

Mulder's bottom lip hedged out further. "Ass. Showoff."

MacLeod cleared his throat. "Here, Walter." MacLeod hustled Skinner through the large living room area to a door at the back. "Take this one. It's got its own bath, you can have some privacy." MacLeod grinned at him. "Sleep well. Get up whenever. We'll be around."

Skinner's eyes strayed back to Mulder. He had fallen onto the couch, pushing off his shoes and curling up around one of the huge sofa pillows. Pierson had disappeared already, probably into his--their?--own room.

Nothing to do but sleep it off--and face his own rabid imagination. "Thanks." He shut the bedroom door behind him with a click, leaving him abruptly alone.

Isn't that what he wanted?

Sighing, stretching a bit and rubbing his head, he took in the room, lit invitingly by the glow of a bedside lamp. Lush and modern, decorated in rich jewel tones. He kicked off his shoes, pulled off socks and dug his toes into the thick, plush ruby carpeting.

A shower, he should take a shower now. Waking up after drinking too much was one thing, but waking up stinking like he'd rolled around in a vat of it lowered the experience to a whole new level. Fumbling, he managed to get his belt and pants undone, removing and laying them on the overstuffed, lapis colored chair. His polo skimmed off and followed, then he spied the open door and made his unsteady way into the bath.

Dramatic black and white tiles in too bright a light, and a huge shower stall. He cranked on the hot water and lost himself in the cascade for more than ten minutes. Dripping as he stepped out, Skinner yanked a towel around his hips, tucking it to stay with mixed success while he rummaged for a toothbrush and toothpaste in the complimentary toiletries basket. His hands were unsteady, but they were steady enough to get paste on the brush and the brush in his mouth. They weren't steady enough to keep the towel from slipping to the floor, so he gave up that goal.

When he was done, he eyed his wavering reflection in the mirror. Sliding into middle age he might be, but he had the physique of a much younger man. He squinted. A blurry physique. And a drunken younger man. A sigh gusted 

out as he and his shadow frowned. Skinner had a sneaking suspicion his emotional maturity and judgement level were on par with that fictional much younger man right about now--but what did it matter? He'd ingested a great quantity of perfectly good liquor, and he might as well let it act as the expensive soporific it was. Tomorrow was soon enough to think about tonight's asinine behavior. Maybe too soon.

From the bathroom door, Skinner took four steps to the king-sized bed and fell naked upon it. He neglected to pull down the comforter before willingly giving in to the lure of unconsciousness.

.o0O0o.

Odd sounds penetrated the fog in his brain in fits and spurts until he rolled over, semi-conscious. The unfamiliar room sparked off total disorientation. Where the hell was he?

The sounds came again, and Skinner's sluggish brain worked to fill in the huge gap in his knowledge at the same time his body was up and moving, scrambling for the briefs lying in a white puddle on the chair by the bed. Vaguely threatening sounds, a hotel room...he was on the road. A case. Danger. He fumbled on the bedside table, gratified to find at least something familiar in the setting. His SIG felt weighty and damned good as he checked the clip and thumbed the safety off by touch in the filtered light of the windows.

There they were again--men's voices through the wall. Out in the hall? The doorknob was cool and slick under his hand, the door silent as it opened--and he found himself looking into another room instead of a hotel corridor.

"Unhhhhh...."

It came from the far side of the darkened room, and Skinner worked his way toward it like a flash, gun in hand. He reached out with his left hand, grasping yet another doorknob, twisting it silently, and--

"You really don't want to do that--"

Skinner swung around toward the low voice behind him just as the door pushed open further.

"UNHHHHH...."

The groaning became louder as the door opened, and like a puppet, Skinner swung back around in the doorway toward the noise, gun out and braced in both hands. Soft lighting illuminating the scene before him.

###

The groaning became louder as the door opened, and like a puppet, Skinner swung back around in the doorway toward the noise, gun out and braced in both hands. Soft lighting illuminating the scene before him.

Two men lay writhing on the bed, groaning--but not from pain. From sheer, naked lust. Their bare skin gleamed as light danced over their undulating bodies. In a flash, Skinner remembered everything of the previous evening as he took in the splayed and supine figure of Duncan MacLeod, his arms flung wide, his elegant legs folded back until his knees were almost next to his head. His eyes were closed and his face the study of ecstasy. Pierson's lithe figure bent over him with taut and straining muscles as he balanced his upper body weight while his hips strained.

Skinner couldn't breathe; his lungs suddenly seemed incapable of exhaling. He remembered exactly where he was and why. Stunned into immobility, all he could do was stare at the most shocking thing he'd ever stumbled across. Pierson's hips kept moving and MacLeod kept writhing, breathy sounds interspersed by louder, earthier groans.

"Ah, Adam, yeah, come on...." MacLeod muttered distinctly, egging Pierson on to a faster pace. The sound of naked, damp skin slapped together in counterpoint to the gasps coming now from both men. Pierson flung his head back, his neck arched as he panted over the body beneath him, his pale skin flushed and in high contrast with MacLeod's darker tones.

"Told you."

Skinner gasped as Mulder reached out from behind him and pushed down his gun arm, still extended toward the men on the bed.

"No threat here." Mulder glanced at the bed, desire tightening his face. "On the contrary...."

Pierson turned his head and looked across the room at Skinner and Mulder with hooded eyes, slowing his movements to a stop before lowering himself onto MacLeod. Purposely, he cradled Mac's head before applying himself to exploring Mac's open mouth in a kiss Skinner felt in every part of his body.

Skinner was riveted, jailed inside overly sensitized skin, aware of Mulder breathing heavily next to him, of Pierson's deliberate and erotic showmanship, of MacLeod's wanton disregard of being watched. Time slowed to a crawl even as his heart sped up to an alarming rate.

He stood at the event horizon of an unknown object, a black hole in his reality, sucking him in against all intelligence and sense, against his very will. A small part of him fought it, appalled at what was happening, at what it inspired in him. But it was only a small part, he was shocked to notice, a small voice amid the onslaught, easily drowned out and brushed aside by larger, more urgent needs clamoring inside him for attention. In a blinding flash, Skinner realized they'd been locked away for years. Even if he tried to fight them, he didn't stand a chance.

Pierson turned his head again toward the silent watchers in the doorway, a sly, humorous look pulling the edges of his mouth upward. "Come and join us. Two is great, but four is..." his eyes gleamed, "...adventurous." At Pierson's words, MacLeod finally acknowledged them, his dark eyes languorous and speculative and completely unselfconscious as he regarded the two in the doorway.

Suicide. The word screamed out in the far recesses of Skinner's mind. This whole scene was suicide; it could destroy him, roll right over him like a shock wave and leave him in pieces after its passing. He couldn't move, held immobile by the conflict warring through him.

When Mulder leaned into him, he gasped out loud, a harsh sound in the waiting stillness of the room. Mulder's hand closed over his own, carefully tugging the forgotten gun from his nerveless fingers.

"You plan on shooting me?"

Skinner turned his head. Mulder's eyes were close enough for Skinner to see individual flecks of green and yellow scattered throughout the iris. Lines fanned out from both corners, marks of age creeping up slowly. The dark smudge of Mulder's beard darkened his jaw, matching the dark smudge of sleeplessness around his eyes.

But Mulder's eyes gleamed bright, an incandescent glow that conveyed his humor and thoughts all too plainly. Skinner swallowed, knowing he was lost. True north no longer existed and his own inner world had lurched sideways on its course. "I should." His voice was hoarse and rough with lust, and he'd never felt more exposed in his life than he did simply standing there in his boxers.

"I've got a better idea." Mulder eased the gun down onto a nearby table. "Why don't you just fuck me into next week? That way, you can do it over and over again as much as you want. And it's easier to clean up." Mulder's eyes bore into him, his full, lower lip creased down the center like a fold line.

Bend me, crease me, fold me, spindle me, go ahead, do it-- Mulder's eyes taunted him.

So he did.

Mulder's mouth was deep and wet, his tongue like something possessed. Skinner's fingers bit into the back of Mulder's head. Short, soft hair bunched up and slid beneath his palm. Skinner sensed the shock wave of disaster rolling closer to him, looming on the horizon, but Mulder wrapped strong, wiry arms around him, and their bodies pressed together, skin to skin.

It was real and it was tangible. And he wanted it. He wanted. His need burst through him like an explosion, hot and bright and devastating; Skinner feared there'd be nothing left of him after it incinerated him. And right on the heels of that thought, he decided he didn't care.

He grasped and clutched and buried his face in the shock of hair that always flopped over Mulder's brow and now stood up defiantly. He bit down on Mulder's neck, tongued his skin and tasted him, salt and sweat and traces of beer. He felt Mulder groan, deep vibrations within the chest against his own; heavy satisfaction bubbled through Skinner's veins like champagne.

He wanted to consume the man in his hold, an almost violent desire as he bit and sucked from one side of Mulder's face to the other, coming back occasionally to plunder into that wet mouth again. Lithe and strong, sinewy muscles rippled under Mulder's skin, and Skinner traced and bit down on each and every movement.

Warmth replaced the cool air at his back. Hands smoothed over his shoulders and appeared on Mulder's torso. Skinner attempted to regroup his scattered thoughts, but a warm breath on his neck and the amused face suddenly next to Mulder's threw him off-center.

Pierson stood behind Mulder, pulling Mulder's head back to lie on his shoulder. Eyes slitted, Mulder stared up at Skinner, his breath expelled on a sigh as Pierson's hand wandered down his body. Skinner couldn't stop following the path of that long-fingered hand, watching it explore the pale abdomen, push down the rumpled boxers and curl around Mulder's semi-hard length.

"He's been waiting for you, did you know, Walter?" Pierson murmured even as his hand kept moving, coaxing Mulder to further surrender. Skinner was speechless, glued to the sight. "He told me he wanted you badly."

Both Mulder and Skinner groaned, and Skinner was vaguely aware of the press of another body from behind, all hard skin and arms pushing him forward against Mulder, burying Pierson's hand between them. He could feel it moving against the flimsy barrier of his briefs as the other man kept up a slow jerk that rubbed against his own turgid flesh.

"Let's take it to the bed," MacLeod husked near his ear. He felt a nudge and a push, and the quartet began to move across the room like an eight-legged creature.

It was a dream, an alcohol-induced dream, Skinner thought in disjointed moments of rationality. There'd be no other way he would submit to this, no way he could let himself be this open, feel this raw, or acknowledge this powerful a need. A dream. Not real.

The room tilted, and he was horizontal, lying on the supine and naked body of the most problematic, the sexiest man he knew. He could feel the press of Mulder's erection against his belly, insistent and needy. His own dampened the placket of his briefs until they were soaked.

A dream. Not real.

Skinner shuddered as something damp brushed against his spine: kisses, spaced down his back as hands pulled at his underwear, forcing them past his hips, down his legs and off. Hands insinuated themselves into the heat between Mulder's body and his own; he jerked when one closed around his erection.

"No matter how much Fox wants you...you'll need to get him ready for this or he'll be walking funny later," Pierson laughed in Skinner's ear. "Use this." Pierson pulled one of Skinner's hands up and something cool puddled into it. He looked down at a blob of clear, wet gel.

Skinner took a deep breath, trying to clear away the fog of lust clouding his head. Blinking his eyes open, he sat back and looked at the splayed figure before him. Pierson caressed Mulder, petting him fondly and watching Skinner with knowing eyes. He could feel MacLeod behind him, and closed his eyes when Mac's hands roamed down to touch him. He struggled for air to think clearly. "Why?" he managed to bite out, his left hand locked around Mulder's leg as Mac skillfully worked him.

"Why not?" Pierson countered with ease, as Mac's breath gusted against Skinner's neck, Mac's hair teased along his shoulders. "He wants you. Don't tell me the feeling's not mutual. You knew the score at dinner."

Mac's mouth brushed against Skinner's ear, making him shiver.

Pierson smiled with satisfaction and something else not wholly pure. "I saw you watching us."

"Fox has been good for us, for Adam especially, and I'd like to return the favor." Sweat broke out on Skinner's brow at MacLeod's murmured words, his heat rising measurably. "He wants you--and I want to give him to you." Mac chuckled deeply. "C'mon, Walter--it'll be nice to be on the other end of watching for a change."

Two sets of eyes glimmered at Skinner, watching Mac's hand work him while whispering in his ear. He should be horrified and embarrassed, but the only thing flooding through him was desire. This isn't me, I'm not doing this, he thought to himself, but knew otherwise.

He reached out and touched Mulder; heat rose from his lean body like a furnace. Pierson arranged Mulder's legs, pulling them up and back, exposing all of Mulder to Skinner's gaze. His pale, wiry body sported no tan lines, darkening only down the crease of his ass, flushed and swollen around his anus.

Reaching out, Skinner touched the sensitive skin, lube glistening wetly as he dragged his fingers over puckered skin. Mulder cried out and thrust upward greedily, pushing against Skinner's hand. Watching, Skinner trailed his fingers again around Mulder's clenching anus, fascinated with his immediate and violent response. Gathering lube on his forefinger, Skinner pushed it in, surprised when he found no resistance.

Mulder reached out and grasped his wrist. "I'm ready, come on, do it, do it now."

Pierson and MacLeod chuckled softly at Mulder's peremptory order, and a violent lust slammed back through Skinner again. He reached down and took hold of Mulder's hips with harsh fingers, knowing they'd leave marks. He wanted to leave his mark on this infuriating man.

Leaning over, Skinner got right in Mulder's face, his breath coming as fast as if he'd run a mile. "You want me, boy?" he muttered, lust churning like white-hot metal. "You think you're ready for me? You'd better pray you're right."

With no other warning than a slight prod against him, Skinner pushed in past the resistance, waited a handful of seconds, then pushed all the way home. His breath caught as Mulder enveloped him like a vise. Mulder's cries echoed in his ears, a mixture of pleasure and pain, and damn, it was the best thing he'd heard in a long time.

Mulder's hands fisted around Skinner's upper arms in a death grip as he panted, trying to accommodate Skinner's size.

"Thought you were ready for me, didn't you, Mulder?" Skinner leaned down to sample again the dark, hop-flavored taste of Mulder's mouth, vaguely aware of the other men as they moved, too, and the bed rocked. "When I'm inside you, you're never going to doubt it."

Mulder nodded and gave a breathy half-laugh. "I can see that. Ah, Walter." He gasped as Skinner nudged his hips gently against Mulder, moving slightly. "Ah, god."

"You okay?" Skinner frowned down at Mulder's pained expression.

Mulder's eyes flew open to stare seriously at Skinner. "Hell yes. What are you waiting for?"

Laughter floated over the bed, and this time, Skinner couldn't stop his own humor from breaking out. "I can see you're no different here than you are anywhere else." He smiled a very predatory smile. "Neither am I." With that, Skinner leaned in and swallowed whatever reply Mulder wanted to make, plundering his mouth thoroughly as he plunged into Mulder's ass.

Having more than two hands on his body disoriented Skinner. Mulder's hands still gripped his arms, and now, two more strayed down his back. Their light, trailing movement made Skinner shiver as he moved in Mulder's addictive heat. Every hitch in Mulder's breathing seemed amplified as he slid back into his welcoming body, Mulder's nearly inaudible chant, "Do it, do it," teasing his ears.

It felt so damn good, he couldn't think. All he could do was feel, something he'd denied himself for so long. Skinner hadn't known he'd been starving until he had the opportunity to satiate himself, and everything inside him drove him toward that end.

Mulder filled his vision, all gleaming, smooth skin, complete surrender to whatever they did to him. Pierson skimmed a hand over Mulder's face and chest, sliding down to play with his erection, lying heavy and pulsing in the crease of his thigh. Skinner glanced down and saw their own intimate connection, a dizzying blend of sight and sensation as he pulled out and surged back in to that incredibly tight place. His blood simmered as Mulder bore down on him, milking any lucid thought from his mind except need. His ears filled with the wonder of Mulder's low, hoarse cries, wordless and demanding.

A heated body pressed close behind Skinner, and a hand splayed across his belly, clinging to him and riding his muscles as he undulated against Mulder, surging forward and back. He jerked and faltered when another trailing hand edged down his spine and further into the shadows between his cheeks.

"Problem?" MacLeod's deep, accented voice breathed in his ear, his hand paused in his explorations.

Skinner gulped air and saw Mulder watching.

"Let him," Mulder ordered, his words harsh and tight like his face. "I want to see it."

Mulder's words seemed connected to Skinner's gut with a live fuse, a spark from Mulder's heat speeding along and burning into Skinner's innards. He wanted to consume Mulder's expression, breathe it in until he owned it, until he was it. The impulse pushed him forward, and he placed his mouth over Mulder's parted lips, his hands slipping up from Mulder's hips to hold his head. All this rash, impulsive brilliance, all his.

Short hair slid through his fingers as he gripped and wrestled with the man beneath him in mutual lust. Their mouths searched for dominance even as he thrust in below, demanding access, but Skinner won, determined to wrest what he needed from Mulder. He sucked on Mulder's restless tongue, holding it tight within the grip of his own teeth until a forgotten presence behind him startled him, and he gasped as hands kneaded his buttocks and parted them, a wet tongue painting a line down the crease. A shudder streaked through him.

"Yes." Mulder's eyes gleamed knowingly up at him. "Yeah, that's it. That's the look I've always wanted to see you get."

Mulder's words burrowed in like fire as MacLeod stroked damp circles over skin sensitized beyond normal. He felt out of control and plunged helplessly into Mulder, falling further along the spiral.

"Yeah, more, yeah," Mulder urged, incredibly, and at this point, Skinner could only comply.

Clever fingers replaced the tongue in his crease, slick and probing. When something larger and blunter took their place, he froze, suddenly unsure.

"Relax, Walter," MacLeod rumbled against his back, hands soothing down his flank.

"Yeah, Walter, relax. Believe me, you're gonna like this." Mulder grinned cheekily as Pierson nuzzled against him, his right hand buried between Pierson's legs.

A sharp burning, then his sphincter was breached. The large fullness pressed in, and Skinner followed the motion, pressing further into Mulder. He forgot to breathe, focusing so closely on the wild, erotic sensation of penetrating and being penetrated at the same time, the dual presence of warm flesh both in front and behind, the rasp of hair and clutch of hands on his skin, the deep and urgent sounds of male pleasure in fine, clear quadruplex stereo.

"Adam, c'mon, let's do it, hurry up. Make it happen," Mulder urged suddenly, writhing between the bodies surrounding him, impaling himself faster on Skinner's cock.

A hand suddenly slid in between Skinner's legs, boldly touching him as he slid into Mulder, then stroking backward to cup his scrotum and slide over lube-slick skin to where MacLeod began to set a relentless pace. Skinner bit his lip and moaned inside, opened his eyes and saw Pierson stretched out next to Mulder, watching him.

"Yes," Pierson hissed, his eyes burning as he touched Skinner and MacLeod, as Mulder's hand moved faster between his legs.

Too much, Skinner gasped, too much input, too many eyes-- He reached and pulled Mulder's mouth to his and buried himself in Mulder's willing body, disappearing into his heat and rhythm. Ka-thump, ka-thump, ka-thump...a heartbeat pounded out in his head in tandem with the undulation of his body. Pleasure rushed through him in surges through his veins. Whoosh--sliding into Mulder; whoosh--pressure and sensation as MacLeod slid into him; whoosh--fingers stroked along his stretched flesh. He began to shake, losing his rhythm in jerky motions, unable to form a coherent thought. For the first time in memory, he was only sensation, a wild, free electric being--

"Yeah, yeah, Adam, now--" MacLeod choked out behind him, pressing in tightly.

Pierson growled in response, a wild animal sound that buzzed through Skinner, growling and rumbling and vibrating in sheer sensation. A surge of pure energy shot through him, and he clamped his hands down hard on Mulder before a cry broke from his mouth. Then something connected and didn't let go, relentless and hot like pure flame ripping through his body. He thought he might have bitten Mulder's tongue before the flame carried him away, but he wasn't sure.

He only knew that he no longer felt bound by the limits of his flesh; the flimsy covering had melted away and left him naked, dancing in the fire. And Mulder was there, dancing the flame, also. Other things danced in the flame, but Skinner couldn't focus on them; he only saw the colors of the fire, and Mulder.

###

He only knew that he no longer felt bound by the limits of his flesh; the flimsy covering had melted away and left him naked, dancing in the fire. And Mulder was there, dancing the flame, also. Other things danced in the flame, but Skinner couldn't focus on them; he only saw the colors of the fire, and Mulder.

Every nerve ending in Skinner's body ached. He felt as if an electric surge had blown all his neurons to hell. Something moved beneath him--Mulder. His nose was buried beneath Mulder's chin, and he took a deep breath and smelled the unique scent of sex and sweat and skin...and shuddered helplessly as another huge aftershock rolled through him. His toes curled and he gasped for breath, wondering when he'd turned into the human equivalent of California's geology.

His perch jiggled--Mulder was laughing. "Hot damn, guys," he said on a wave of laughter. "You outdid yourself. I think Walter's fried." Mulder squirmed. "He's dead weight. Fried, yeah, definitely fried. That was more voltage than you've ever managed before. Hell, even I'm toast. How'd you manage to generate that much more? Find yourselves a handy dandy battery to plug into?"

Silence met Mulder's words, the four bodies lying lumped on the bed like a pile of puppies.

Mulder suddenly jerked and began shaking his head rapidly. "No, oh no. Oh fuck, holy shit."

Walter felt movement, but was too damned achy and exhausted to lift his head and see what Mulder was doing.

"Holy fucking shit. It can't be."

He could feel the other two bodies move now.

"By George, I think he's got it," Adam croaked out.

"You mean to tell me that--he's--" Mulder spluttered.

"Not yet, but he will be."

Mulder stopped trying to move out from underneath Skinner's lax body and lay back like the dead.

MacLeod stirred to Skinner's right. "You think we'd reveal this to just anybody? C'mon, Fox, use your head."

"You shared it with me," Mulder said in a small voice.

Pierson rolled over, leaning on Skinner's left arm. "Yes, we did, didn't we, dear boy."

"But I'd forced your hand. Sort of. Hadn't I?"

"Put that highly educated brain of yours to work, Fox, and I'm sure you'll figure it out." MacLeod stretched noisily and rolled off the bed. "Hey, I want my bed back. Four in here for sex works. Four in here for sleeping? Not since the 1600's in the Highlands. I'm a man who wants his space. C'mon, move it." MacLeod smacked Skinner's upturned and naked butt.

Skinner felt it but still could barely move. He didn't even flinch.

"I, uh, I don't think he'll be conscious for a while yet," Mulder offered.

Pierson sighed. "Let them stay here, Mac. We'll crash in the other room." The bed shifted as Pierson's weight rolled away from Skinner and off the bed.

"Wait...Adam?" Mulder called.

"What," Pierson said with a yawn in his voice.

Skinner could feel Mulder fidgeting beneath him.

"I forced your hand, right? And that's why you shared with me."

There was a long pause as the light was turned off. Skinner heard MacLeod and Pierson moving across the room.

"Really? You think I'd reveal that because I was forced?" Pierson asked. Even Skinner could hear the smirk in his voice. "Night, Foxy boy."

Skinner heard the door close.

"Holy shit." Mulder seemed to have difficulty catching his breath. "Holy fucking shit."

Skinner wanted to tell Mulder his choice of vocabulary seemed way too narrow, but the unsubtle pull of unconsciousness tugged at him too strongly. And another fucking aftershock rolled through him. He hadn't even managed to pull out of Mulder all the way. Every time Mulder twitched, Skinner felt it to his toes.

As consciousness left him, Skinner thought distantly he needed to ask Mulder just what in the hell that last conversation with Pierson and MacLeod had been about.

.o0O0o.

The last time Skinner had experienced an awkward morning-after was nearly twenty years ago. He'd been faithful during his marriage, and the one time he hadn't, well...a little murder while they slept had conveniently derailed the whole next-morning scene. Dealing with the police about her murder had been a very different prospect than dealing with the three men he'd had uninhibited sex with last night, and right now, he wasn't sure which one was worse. And he couldn't even fool himself into thinking he hadn't known what he was doing right from the start. Oh, no, he'd known. He'd wanted. He had ignored all the screaming in his head. So whatever he got, he fully deserved it.

Even the prevarications and lies.

This morning, MacLeod and Pierson had prowled around the suite after Skinner had awakened, peering out windows and even opening up the door and checking the hall once. Mulder's behavior ran the gamut between permanently attaching himself to Skinner's side and not being able to look him in the eye. And no one would tell him what the fuck was going on, not even Mulder. He'd been stonewalled, put off with the promise of talking about everything tonight at his condo, and after last night, if he was stark, straight-forward honest, the delay cut deep. Just goes to show, Skinner thought cynically, if it's too good to be true, then he should heed that warning. At least he was consistent, learning the hard way by letting his gonads fuck things up.

Last night now seemed like a major cluster fuck--in more ways than one.

"I think I'll walk, thanks." Skinner pushed away from the side of the elevator and strode through the doors as they opened onto the hotel parking garage. All he wanted to do was get away from the hotel, from looking at Mulder's uneasy face, from the watchful eyes of Pierson and MacLeod. "I need some fresh air."

"We'll meet you in the restaurant parking lot, then, and follow you over to your condo," Pierson called after him.

Skinner saw the easy knowledge in Pierson's eyes and knew he wasn't about to let Skinner get home and deny them access past the lobby. "Whatever," he growled. Skinner's anger was too fresh, too strong to easily set aside even if he wanted to, which he didn't. Something about Pierson's innocent expression spelled L-I-A-R in big, flashing letters to Skinner, and all he wanted to do was let his fist become intimately acquainted with the Brit's placid smile.

"I'll come with you," Mulder said, and Skinner rounded on him, ready to take a verbal strip off his hide, but the look in Mulder's eyes arrested him. He paused, the angry words backing up behind his teeth. Hard to yell at Mulder while he looked pole-axed. It reminded Skinner of when Scully had been abducted, and later when she had developed cancer, that same lost, uncertain look in his eyes, with fear underneath his bravado.

So Mulder wanted to come with him. He took a deep breath. "Fine." Whatever. At the moment, he wasn't sure that anything they could explain would excuse stringing him along today when something was obviously wrong, something obviously was eating at Mulder and making the other two antsy as hell. And like usual, here he was in the dark, his hands tied. Hell, it surely wasn't the first time he'd felt like this, but goddammit, he hated it with a vengeance. He hated seeing that look in Mulder's eyes again. He hated feeling useless--

Skinner saw both MacLeod and Pierson suddenly shift posture, tension springing to life in their pose as they started scanning the area.

"Mac--" Pierson warned, and Mac replied, "Yeah." He reached into his jacket and pulled out a long, wicked-looking, curved sword.

"What the hell is that?" Skinner growled, realizing something was really, really wrong, and he still didn't have a clue what was going on.

Mulder blanched. "Oh, great, just perfect," he muttered as he reached for his ankle holster.

Skinner automatically reached around to where his gun nestled snug against the small of his back. "Tell me what's going on," he demanded, eyes sweeping the parking garage and seeing nothing moving.

MacLeod stood up straight. "It's--"

"Duncan. It's been a while." A dark-haired young man casually appeared between two parked cars.

A pained expression flitted across MacLeod's face, then he purposefully blanked it. "David Keough. It's not been long enough. This is not the best time to pick up where we left off. We have guests," Mac indicated Skinner and Mulder.

"Yes, so I see. Still quite the teacher to all the young ones, aren't you, Duncan?"

Skinner watched as Pierson slowly moved over at an angle, trying to reach the end car in the row. Once there, he might be able to scoot around and get behind this David character.

"Like I said, David, now is not the time to discuss it. Why don't we set up a time and a place?" Cold steel crept into Mac's voice.

"That's not why I'm here, Duncan," David pointed to MacLeod's sword and shook his head. "I thought...one good turn deserves another, doesn't it? After all, I have you to thank for losing the people I loved."

MacLeod took a step forward. "David, you're delusional. That's not how it was. Anyway, this is between you and me. They don't even know you."

David smiled. "You think so, Duncan? Funny, I don't."

Before Skinner could blink, David raised his arm and Skinner saw the dull glint of florescent light on metal. Everybody cursed, and time moved in slow motion as the gun swung around. The sharp sound of gunpowder exploding rang in his ears as a bullet caught Adam diving for cover. Mulder was aiming as the next bullet flew, and he staggered, his eyes widening as he crumpled to the cement floor with a huge red blossom on his chest. Duncan was yelling something, but all Skinner knew was cold, sharp focus emerging through his screaming fear and rage, the feel of the gun in his hand, the trigger squeezing under his finger, the recoil up his arm. He saw David stagger, hit, but then David laughed, and before Skinner could squeeze the second shot off, something massive slammed into his chest with breath-stealing force. His legs gave out beneath him, the floor cold along the length of his body. The florescent lights in the garage ceiling shown down in his eyes, and he tried but couldn't see where Mulder had fallen...where was Mulder?

MacLeod suddenly loomed over him, his mouth moving, but Skinner couldn't hear. He wanted to tell Mac about the cell phone in his jacket pocket, call 911, but only one wheezing word escaped his lips.

"Mulder..."

The light on the ceiling got dimmer and dimmer until it finally turned off all together.

.o0O0o.

Sensation slammed into Skinner with the subtle force of a freight train. It rolled over and through him and left him feeling as if every bone in his body had been broken, every nerve in his body irritated into inflammation. He dragged in needed air and cried out, curling over onto himself. Good God, but his body hurt! It was hard to think past the bright, red pain, pulsing through him like a live creature. He tried to breathe shallowly, but his body demanded air, and he was forced to drink in huge, great gulps of it, expanding his chest and diaphragm in ways that hurt as much as any torture.

"Ah, he's finally coming around."

Whatever Skinner was lying on dipped down to the side slightly as someone sat next to him.

"About time you two started making a come-back," the person next to him spoke cheerfully. "What a bloody, hellish mess it all was. God, I hate dying."

Pierson, Skinner recognized the voice as Pierson's. He tried to speak and coughed, his throat full of mucous.

"Here, drink this, it'll help."

Gentle hands lifted his head and directed his mouth to a glass of water. It slid down his throat and he swallowed it gratefully...then groaned at the pulling pains in his diaphragm muscles.

"Take your time, we're not going anywhere. We've got this lovely room in...where the hell are we, Mac?"

"Somewhere close to Baltimore. That seemed a far enough distance away from the hullaballoo in Alexandria, the gunshots and the police. And David," MacLeod added grimly.

Skinner opened his eyes at that. Baltimore...what the hell had happened? He remembered, oh Christ, he remembered the night before, the four of them...he remembered being angry, wanting to walk away when no one would tell him why Mulder was upset....Mulder, oh shit, Mulder. "Mulder," he murmured urgently, coughing to clear his throat. "Where's Mulder? Is he okay?" The image of Mulder being hit by the bullet and going down replayed in Skinner's head over and over. He struggled to sit up, and Pierson didn't stop him.

"Yeah, he's fine," MacLeod spoke up from the next bed. "He's just taking a little longer to come around. Soon, though," Mac reassured him.

Skinner's hands flew to his chest. His shirt and pants were gone, and he lay on an ugly bedspread in his briefs. There were rusty-red stains along the waistband, but his chest, though it felt like shit, seemed completely fine. Not a bullet hole or wound in sight. "What the hell..." He looked up and saw Pierson and MacLeod both watching him. His head ached, an odd, urgent pulsing across the back of his neck and scalp that was hard to ignore.

With one quick glance, he took in the cheap motel room, the ugly furniture and the two double beds. Mulder, on the other bed in a similar undressed state, appeared to be unconscious. Like his own body, there wasn't a surface wound to be seen on Mulder.

A fine tremor shook through Skinner; this was way beyond anything he'd experienced, even his out-of-body experience twenty-five years ago in Vietnam. "What the hell's going on here? I was shot. I saw Mulder get shot. Where's the wounds from the bullets?" A horrifying thought came to Skinner and he paled. Mulder had talked about seeing things, amazing things, things not of this world, and certain talents that were normal in the aliens he had encountered.

Pierson sat near him, watching him with narrowed eyes. Skinner reached out with strong hands and grabbed his arm with a quick motion. With his nails, he gouged hard into Pierson's inner arm, then scooted back, watching. Blood welled up from the tender skin. Red blood, not green. Human red blood.

"Hey! What the fuck are you doing?" Pierson yelled, wrenching his arm back and glaring daggers at Skinner.

"It's red." Relief at that discovery flowed through Skinner, followed by more confusion.

"What the hell else would it be? Pink with purple polka-dots?" Pierson said irritably, glaring at Skinner and rubbing his arm.

"Adam," MacLeod spoke up quietly, tension in his voice, "now might be a good time for explanations...complete with a handy example."

Pierson glanced at MacLeod and sighed. "Annoying, but true." Abruptly, he held his scratched arm out in front of Skinner and barked, "Watch."

Frowning, Skinner glanced down at Pierson's displayed arm--and his confusion only grew. Something--what the hell was that?--glittered briefly over the long red scratch, and before Skinner's eyes, it simply...disappeared. Pale, smooth skin once more covered Pierson's arm. Skinner could even see a criss-crossing of blue veins beneath the surface. He reached out cautiously and trailed his fingers over the spot he'd just dug into: smooth. Not a single scar or bump.

A strange sense of calm descended on Skinner, and he looked up. Two sets of wary eyes watched him. "So...what are you, a type Mulder's never run across before? You've been in tight with Mulder for a while now...is your goal to keep him in line? And now me...two for the price of one. How lucky can you get?" Skinner's mouth twisted, and excess energy coursed through his body, making him feel jumpy. He rose from the bed to pace a few steps, never taking his eyes from the other two. "I don't understand. Why keep us alive? Why not just let us die? Everything would be a hell of a lot easier that way. No more hassles, no more problem child."

"I have to say, that would certainly be true right about now," said Pierson, obviously annoyed.

MacLeod frowned. "Adam, enough. Walter, this is something different...something Fox didn't know about until he...met us."

As he listened, Skinner saw a pile of clothes abandoned on the floor and kicked through them until he found his shirt. It was saturated in blood, still tacky and not quite dry. His fingers came away red and sticky where he pressed them against the material, and he stared at his hand. His own blood, a lot of it. He'd seen a lot his own blood once before, staining the brown dirt and green leaves of a Vietnam jungle. Then, like now, he hadn't died. But his injuries had robbed him of the good part of a year of his life that time and left scars behind to remind him. He stroked a hand back over his chest blindly, oblivious to the streak of red he left in his wake. This time, there was no scar. There was nothing to keep him from doubting his own memory, except this blood.

Skinner's jaw ached where he clenched it as he aimed a fierce expression at whomever, whatever, sat on the bed. "Why don't you spell it all out for me right now, so I'll know, too," he spit out.

Pierson and MacLeod exchanged glances, and Pierson looked back at him with bright eyes. "Okay. What do you know about immortals?"

Skinner blinked. "Immortals? Like Greek gods? What the hell does that have to do with you?"

Pierson laughed out loud. "Ah, funny you should ask that. Once upon a time..."

"Can we stick to the topic at hand?" MacLeod interrupted. "Why don't we--"

MacLeod stopped as a huge shudder passed through Mulder's body, and he drew the loudest, longest gasp of air Skinner had ever heard. A cry passed his lips, and MacLeod leaned over him, talking softly.

"What's wrong? Is he alright?" Alarmed, Skinner started to walk around to the other bed, but Pierson stopped him.

"Yes, he's fine. Just give him a moment. Remember how you felt waking up? Mulder's going through that now, and maybe a bit more." Pierson stood up, reached around and handed Skinner's glass of water over to MacLeod. "His injuries were actually more extensive than yours. You see," Pierson swiveled back and looked Skinner right in the eye, "he was shot directly in the heart. Dead instantly, which is nice, but it means there's more to repair. And a bit more ache when you come back."

"Shit," Mulder shuddered, sat up and grimaced. "I'm going to kill you both. All this time, and you never said."

MacLeod leaned down and peered at him. "And would you rather have known all this time? Think back over the past day when you did finally know, Fox. Was it a pleasant knowledge?"

"Fuck," Mulder cursed and held his head in his hands. "My head...is this your Quickening?"

MacLeod chuckled. "Yeah, although you're both getting an overload of it, the four of us in one room and you just coming back for the first time."

Skinner suddenly felt as if his blood would boil in his veins. "Wait," he growled. "Mulder, are you all right?"

Mulder looked at him and burst out laughing, but with little humor. "Am I all right?" He winced as he stretched and looked at Mac and Pierson. "You haven't told him yet?"

"They haven't told me a goddamn thing, and I want to know just what the fuck is going on," Skinner gritted out through clenched teeth.

MacLeod shrugged at Mulder's questioning look.

"Come here," Mulder beckoned to Skinner, holding out his hand.

Frowning, Skinner went over. Mulder grasped his hand and pulled him to sit on the bed, then leaned heavily against him, making no trouble to hide the fact he needed the contact. Automatically, Skinner put his arms around Mulder's naked torso and felt the fine trembling that swept through him.

"Go ahead," Mulder murmured, "tell him. Tell us both."

Skinner held Mulder tighter and watched Pierson, who had laid his hands on MacLeod's shoulders and kneaded them in gentle support.

MacLeod let his head fall back against Pierson's stomach, his narrow gaze thoughtful on Skinner.

"How would you like the opportunity to live forever?"

\--the end--

feedback to , thanks :-)

Pinch me, pinch me 'cuz I'm still asleep  
please god, tell me that I'm still asleep.  
================  
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